


The Falcon and the Rose

by Lykegenia



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: "This is some Game of Thrones-level heartbreak", Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Blight, Angst, Author commentary - codex entries, Author is an attention hound, Canon Character Cameos - Freeform, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Cousland Feels, Demisexuality, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fereldan Civil War AU, Fereldan Culture and Customs, Fereldans, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romance, Slow Burn, This Fic Contains Art
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2018-11-13 10:44:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 99,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11183487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lykegenia/pseuds/Lykegenia
Summary: A Fereldan Civil War AUThe winter of 9:31 Dragon draws to a bitter close. Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, hero of the people, has revealed a string of secret letters between King Cailan and Empress Celene of Orlais. The specifics are unclear, but suspicion of Orlesians run deep, and there are always those willing to take advantage of political scandal. Declaring the king unfit to rule, Loghain has retreated to his southern stronghold in Gwaren, with Queen Anora by his side. Fear and greed threaten to tear Ferelden apart.In Denerim, Cailan busies himself with maps and battle plans, hoping to stem the tide of blood before it can start.In the Arling of Edgehall, King Maric’s bastard son fights against the rebels flocking to the traitor’s banner, determined to free himself from the shadow of his royal blood.And in Highever, Rosslyn Cousland, bitter at being left behind, watches as her father and brother ride to war, unaware of the betrayal lurking in the smile of their closest friend.





	1. I: The Shadow Falls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The board is set; the pieces are moving...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Feel free to skip this bit of rambling and get on with reading)  
> This story has been a long time in the making, and make no mistake, it will be loooooooong. What started out as a simple AU about what would happen to the events of Origins without a Blight has turned into an expansive story that has been a source of comfort, excitement, and endless, endless frustration. I've taken some liberties, and in places added some of my own ideas where canon lore was lacking, but for the most part, the details come straight from the world of Thedas, and I hope you enjoy discovering them as I did. As for the story itself, I've tried to keep to the tone of the games, which means there will be adult content, though I've tried to keep it from being too graphic. Content warnings will be added to relevant chapters.  
> On with the show!
> 
> Chapter CW: canon-typical violence

_Mid-Haring, 9:31 Dragon_

Stretched out on the road behind him, the merchant caravan Reynard de Chernalle had built through years of hard work glittered like the jewels of a duchess in the winter sunshine. He himself was arrayed in travelling clothes of the finest quality, his rather portly frame cushioned against the weather by a quilted wool doublet decorated with a fine embroidery of spring flowers. Two days out from Jader, and the road still curved in easy loops along Gherlen’s Pass through high pastures thickly shadowed with snow. To either side loomed the white-dusted reaches of the Frostbacks, the gateposts of the border between the Orlesian Empire and the little country that had once been its easternmost province. Birds chattered in the mast pines that bordered the road. From his horse Reynard spied the tracks of fennecs eager to return to the warmth of their dens before the next storm. None of the men in the train failed to notice the front of pale, bloated clouds that rolled towards them from the Waking Sea on the back of a chafing north-easterly, and none of them were pleased about it.

Reynard sat straighter in his saddle to better catch a first sight of Ferelden as he capped the brow of the last rise in the road. From there, it was all downhill into lush, unspoiled valleys and thick forests that hunkered down under a grey haze of fog. Unlike the majority of his countrymen, he liked coming to Ferelden, even despite the weather. Its dogs, its stories, and the tenacious nature of its people possessed a welcome authenticity after the delicate pretensions of the minor Orlesian nobility he usually had to deal with. Most of all, he found the opportunities for trade in this former backwater very much to his tastes, and hoped an early arrival before midwinter would help him get the jump on his less adventurous rivals.

After the occupation thirty years previously, any merchant wishing to trade goods in Ferelden had had to make expensive detours through the Free Marches to avoid the prejudice of a population in which resentment traditionally lingered for generations. Clever traders, such as Reynard himself, had learned how to coax profits from these detours, but the gains had been small in the face of the risk to goods crossing the Waking Sea.

The peace treaties signed by good King Cailan four years earlier had changed things, however. Reynard had caught the turning tide, so to speak. He had traded in extortionate handling fees and sailors’ wages for a string of pack mules, wagons, and opportunities for wayside business. He had built good relationships with the merchants in Ridderby and Lakehead and every settlement in between. In less than half a decade his caravan had swollen to three times its original size – and if the rumours in his home city of Val Chevin were to be believed, soon there might be even greater profits to be made in Ferelden. The thought brought a smile to his thin lips.

A gust of wind tugged at the fur mantle of his riding coat, bringing an acrid mixture of smoke and pine balsam to his nose. Beneath him, his usually placid mare shied sideways, tossing her head with a snort. Only once he managed to steady her did he notice the spiked timber barricades that blocked the road ahead, defending a guard post that looked newly built, and which certainly hadn’t been there at the beginning of Hervestmere when he had made his last return trip to Orlais to resupply. He brought one hand to shade his eyes and squinted down the road.

“What do you make of it, Thomas?” he asked as the captain of his private guard trotted up to join him.

The man halted his gelding and scowled in the direction of the garrison of distant, shouting figures. Unlike his employer, the mercenary captain had a gruff appearance. His dark hair and beard were worn long, whether to obscure his features or to terrify opponents in combat, Reynard was unsure, but his weapons were well maintained and the discipline with which he kept his men in line spoke of a military background. While he rarely spoke, when he did it was with sound judgement and complete authority.

“I don’t like it, Ser,” Thomas grunted. “Best hang back and let me handle it. These look like unsavoury sorts.”

Reynard nodded. “I’m inclined to agree. Still, they’re probably just here to improve the road and are weary of being stuck at an out-of-the-way post like this.” He chuckled, imagining what young men might get up to with limited entertainment in the dark winter months. “I’m sure a friendly halloo will put their minds to rest that we’re not bandits.”

“All the same Ser, I advise you to be careful,” Thomas replied, unconvinced.

Busy smoothing the rumples in his coat, Reynard gave only a cursory acknowledgement of the warning as the mercenary cantered back to inform his soldiers of the blockage ahead. Knowing his employer’s penchant for striking up bargains along the road, Thomas would wait to order swords drawn, but his men would be prepared in case the meeting devolved into a confrontation. It was what he was paid for.

As Reynard rode closer, he busied himself by listing inventory in his head, running down a list of things bored soldiers might need. Most of his caravan was loaded with items geared more towards the nobility, and he never traded in flesh, but some of the herbs and delicacies in his wagons were difficult to find in Ferelden, and might go down well. He became so absorbed in working out what he would sell he failed to notice the peculiarity of the banner draped against the flagpole.

“Halloo there, my good man!” he called out when he was near enough to offer his most winning smile. “We are in for a blizzard before the day is out, do you think?”

A man with a weathered face and grimy, mismatched armour stomped out of the guard house, the longsword strapped to his belt the only serviceable thing about him. When he approached, Reynard’s hand twitched as he curbed the instinct to reach for the nosegay in his breast pocket.

“Papers!” the man barked through a mouth half-full of yellowed teeth.

 Beaming wider, Reynard reached into his saddlebags and handed over the trade permits authorised by the Val Chevin Merchants’ Guild. “There you are, good Ser, I am sure everything is in order.”

The man hocked and spat. “You Orlesian?”

“Out of Jader,” came the reply. “Though I do not –”

“What you got in the train?”

“Well, all sorts of things, really,” Reynard answered, somewhat perturbed by the soldier’s brusque manner. “I trade furs, fabrics, spices, trinkets for the ladies,” he added with a wink. “This is my fifth year on this road. Bann Reginalda and Bann Ferrenly are both firm friends.”

The winning smile faltered as the soldier continued to riffle through the permits, scanning the lines with insolent disinterest, content to let the silence grow strained enough for the foreigner’s cob to shift its weight and whicker. He started when another rider cantered up to join the conversation. This one was practiced handling a horse, and the flint-like chips of his eyes showed no trace of fear as he edged in front of his master.

“Is there a problem here?” Thomas asked, polite enough but with a hint of steel that couldn’t be ignored.

Reading the mood, Reynard glanced back to see his company of guards arrayed in tight formation around the caravan, hands on sword hilts, their faces set with grim determination beneath their helmets. With their trained eyes they saw what he had failed to notice – a single flash of metal from within the forest, shadows of trees roving beyond their roots. They were waiting for the ambush. Dread settled like bad meat in Reynard’s stomach as he turned around and watched the strange battle of wills unfolding before him.

From beneath the leather brow of his cap, the soldier squinted upwards, sucking on one of his few remaining molars like a farmer contemplating the chance of rain on the harvest. Thomas stared back, implacable. Both of them seemed to have forgotten the merchant’s existence.

“I asked if there was a problem,” Thomas repeated.

“These papers are invalid.” The soldier held the permits high and opened his hand, letting them drop into the mud before grinding them into the ground with the heel of his boot. He leered. “’Fraid that means we get to inspect your cargo. Make sure you’re not carrying anything… undesirable, like.”

“Now see here –!” Reynard spluttered.

Thomas cut across him. “What writ do you have to authorise a search?” he demanded. “This caravan is sanctioned by Her Imperial Highness Empress Celene, and is under the protection of King Cailan. You have no authority to do this.”

The smirk spread wider across the soldier’s pockmarked face. Beneath his brows, the pale eyes glinted with malice.

“It’s Cailan has no authority here. _On ‘em, lads_!”

Before he could even process the words, Reynard heard the breathy swish of loosed arrows and screamed as his back exploded with agony. His mare reared and flung him into the roadside muck, where he rolled and lay gasping for breath like a landed fish. Shouts of fear and rage flashed in the air around him. When he mustered enough strength to look, he saw many of his men already dead, his drivers pinioned to their seats by crudely fletched arrows, and the guards felled by sword strokes from the bandits that had broken from the trees. Only Thomas held his ground, fighting off three at once with Orlesian curses fit to quell demons in their tracks.

Reynard reached out through the haze of his pain to try and warn his captain about the fourth man charging in behind him, but the arrows had pierced his lungs and his cry fell from his lips as a cough. As his vision dimmed, the wind picked up, bringing with it the first flecks of snow from the storm. Above the battle, unnoticed, the banner on the flagpole unfurled to reveal, not the scarlet War Dogs of the king, but a golden Drake on a field of black – the sigil of Loghain Mac Tir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Feel free to ignore this bit, too)
> 
> Some details on updates: the schedule should be fairly regular, barring any sudden disasters, and the whole story has been planned, so no worries that I'm going to go off on a random tangent and let the story trail away. Fifteen chapters have been written so far, and the plan is to upload every time I finish writing a new one, so the buffer stays in place - which also has the advantage that I can go back and change things that aren't working before I let you guys see it.
> 
> Feedback is food for fic writers :) thanks for reading!


	2. I: In the War Dog's Council

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cailan gets word of Loghain's activities in the west, and plans a counter-attack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome, and welcome back! A big thankyou to everyone who read, kudos'd, and commented on the first chapter. It makes me so happy to know people out there like what I write.
> 
> Artwork in this chapter is by me :)
> 
> And, for context, Cailan's vicious and terrifying war dog is called Biscuit. She likes to eat strawberries.

_Fourteenth day of Wintermarch, 9:32 Dragon_

A sheen of ice crusted on the boots of the messenger striding from the servants’ wing of the palace to the long gallery that served as King Cailan’s war room. The trail of slushy puddles left in her wake attested to the ferocity of the blizzard outside, but though the stone walls beat back the wind, nothing could stop the ravenous cold of midwinter from seeping through the cracks, and the messenger’s blazon stayed hidden beneath layers of thick bear fur.

“Oi!”

The clack of crossed polearms halted the messenger in her tracks, one hand jerked to the weatherproofed satchel at her hip in an instinctive move to keep it safe. The two men flanking the door eyed her with ill-disguised disdain.

“I have an urgent message for His Majesty,” she barked through her scarf. “Let me through immediately.”

“The King’s in council,” one of the guards huffed. “Nobody’s allowed in.”

“I don’t have time for this.”

Before either of them could move, she ducked below their weapons and threw her weight against the door. It gave with a yawn of cold-bitten hinges and swung freely until, groaning, the weight of the oak dragged the outer edge down to rest against the floor. The messenger paid it no mind, intent instead on the group of nobles at the far end of the room. An elderly mabari lifted its head from its paws, growling, but its teeth were worn down and the cold worsened the swelling in its joints. It posed no threat, at least compared to the members of the royal guard lurking in the shadowed recesses of the hall, their hands all but fastened to their sword hilts in readiness to defend their charge.

“Your Majesty,” she intoned, dropping to one knee before the gathering. The scrutiny of so many arls and banns itched at her skin worse than the blood was slowly returning to her frozen extremities. They flanked the king, their scowls looming above thick, rich pelts, their hands tight around the hilts of their swords, sombre with the prospect of war. Next to the stoic Leonas Bryland and the steel of Bann Elara, one face was most noticeable by its absence – the reason for the meeting.

King Cailan slipped to the front of the group, an easy smile on his face that jarred with the atmosphere in the room. “At ease, ser,” he directed. “What news do you bring?” His eyes held the eager light of a hound that’s scented a deer. He did not see the woman standing before him, but the chance she might offer for action.

Ever since Loghain had stormed out of the First Day Landsmeet, the court had been in uproar. The accusations he levelled at Cailan – that he was conspiring with empress Celene, that he planned to divorce Queen Anora in favour of a younger woman who might give him an heir, that he would sell the hard-won freedoms of his people for foreign comforts – had stirred old fears among those who remembered the occupation, and the unrest had rippled outwards in the fortnight since. In peacetime, nobody had questioned the King’s abilities or his right to rule, but Loghain was a respected general, and had become a shrewd politician in the years since River Dane. His impassioned words had plucked at all the right strings to draw out murmurs that questioned Cailan’s competency. After all, everyone knew Anora was the real power behind the throne. Maric’s son or not, an untested king was a liability to nobles who had already lost everything to the Orlesians once before.

“I am sent from Edgehall, Your Majesty,” the messenger said. “The fighting there grows worse. The attacks are open, and Arl Fergus is… concerned by the presence of chevaliers within Fereldan territory.” She unstoppered her letter case with a faint pop, relieved to find that the missive within had survived the journey unscathed.

“I authorised the chevaliers into Gherlen’s Pass because the bandits were targeting Orlesian citizens,” Cailan replied in a wounded tone as he took the paper from her.

“Arl Fergus understands, Your Majesty, but the lands around Edgehall saw the worst of the Occupation. He believes that the growing numbers of bandits in the area are a result of people taking up arms against the Orlesian forces specifically.”

Arl Urien cleared his throat when the King’s frown deepened. “What says the letter, Your Majesty?”

“Attacks are coming daily, and Arl Fergus has heard of a large band heading for Ridderby.” Cailan swallowed. The edges of the paper crinkled in his fingers. “The soldiers are marching under the golden Drake of Gwaren.”

Cries of protest erupted around the war table. Voices lanced across each other, and the echoes took flight like startled pigeons until Arl Eamon, the only person not to raise his voice, banged his gauntleted fist on the table and called for order.

“He dares,” snarled Bann Elara. “The man goes too far.”

“Peace,” Eamon snapped, his attention not on Elara but on Cailan’s furrowed brow and hunched shoulders. “We will deal with this. First, it would be prudent to let go the one who brought us this news – give her a chance to warm up.” This last was said with a smile, but his eyes remained calculating as they fixed on the messenger. He didn’t want her to overhear what came next.

Dropping her gaze, the messenger bowed and stepped as smartly out of the room as her half-thawed limbs would allow, grateful for the excuse to remove herself from the room. She had heard stories of what agitated nobles did to those who brought them bad news, and though she doubted Cailan capable of such malice, high-born men were not like ordinary people. Besides, she had spotted Scytha in one of the lower corridors on her way into the main floor of the palace keep – if she hurried she might be able to convince the woman to part with a dram or two of the Blackrock whiskey left over from the King’s birthday.

With the messenger gone, the nobles once more focussed their attention around the war table. Cailan stood over the maps and the dropped letter, his weight pressed through his knuckles and his mouth pulled down at the corners as Bryland and the others drew closer, alert and ready to carry out whatever task the king commanded of them. Outside, the gale howled on, louder now for the expectant silence hanging within.

“I never thought Loghain would be capable of this,” Cailan eventually bit out. He lifted his head to meet the expectant looks of his advisors, and the low candlelight left shadows in the fatigued hollows of his eyes. “These bandits are attacking villages now, in his name. People are getting hurt. We must ride out at once before this insanity spreads and the peace my father worked so hard for is entirely shattered. You there!” he called to the closest of the royal guard. “Fetch my masters of horse, arms, and kennels, and tell them to prepare for a war march.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Wait.” It was Eamon who spoke. He had laid a hand on his nephew’s arm, an action that in one less forgiving than Cailan might have earned a harsh rebuke. “Consider carefully, Your Majesty. It is the middle of winter. No matter how well prepared, soldiers cannot march clear across a country in a blizzard. A third would be lost to the cold before the battlefield was ever reached, and Loghain knows this. Whether the bandits are acting under his express orders or simply by his leave, his intent is clearly to draw you out beyond the safety of Denerim.”

Cailan frowned and straightened. “Uncle, are you suggesting that I sit here cosily in my castle while madmen set Ridderby aflame just because some of its citizens have ties to Orlais? I wonder, then, between Loghain and I, which of us the people will think more dishonourable.”

“You must of course do all in your power to help the folk in Edgehall and the surrounding lands,” the grizzled Bann Elara interjected with a cool nod of her head. “Nobody is suggesting otherwise. However, my lord Eamon makes a good point. Loghain is a seasoned commander – there is not one of us here who has not seen or at least heard tales of the great victories he won beside your father – and this is no doubt his first move of many. To cry forth with your army for a ragtag group of bandits would be disproportionate; it would stink of insecurity and would only lend legitimacy to the traitor’s claims against you.”

“Loghain himself isn’t in the west,” added Arl Leonas. “No doubt he’s still in Gwaren, stirring up his banns against you, Your Majesty. Most of them are men he put in power with his own hands, so they will answer, especially once he licks them with that silver tongue of his. If you leave Denerim, he will no doubt use the opportunity to wrest control of the city and have you declared unfit to rule.”

The implications of that suggestion settled about the company like the snow outside. Given the lack of an official heir, such a move could spark even greater chaos than was already tightening its grip on Ferelden. Anora was well-positioned and well-liked, and had gained much sympathy since her father’s outburst of accusations at the Landsmeet, making her a perfect puppet for anyone seeking to control the throne.

And Loghain was a masterful puppeteer. With Denerim under his thumb, he could persuade any wavering banns over to his side. All the respect Cailan had inherited with the Theirin bloodline would be made worthless by the perception of his weakness and willingness to side with Ferelden’s oldest enemy. Loghain’s path to power would by no means be complete as long as old families like the Couslands and the Guerrins still involved themselves, but it would be made far easier. Impulsive he might be, but Cailan had been schooled enough in politics to notice when he was cornered.

“In that case, I propose a new strategy.” Stray papers fluttered to the floor as the king cleared the topography of the large map spread across the war table. “Uncle, can I count on Redcliffe?”

“You have but to direct me,” came the steady response.

Cailan forestalled Eamon with a hand. “You I need here. What would I do without you to keep my head out of the clouds, eh?” He cleared his throat. “We’ll send out ravens immediately to your seneschal and to Uncle Teagan at Rainesfere – he can muster the western Bannorn and use them and Redcliffe’s soldiers to deal with the problems around Edgehall.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty,” Eamon replied with a gracious smile. In moments like these, it was possible to see the qualities of both the young king’s parents shining through – Cailan shared a boisterous thirst for adventure with his father, but his wits were as sharp as Queen Rowan’s had ever been.

“With any luck, we can put this rebellion down before it’s even begun.” The king pouted. “Even if that means I don’t get to see a battle, I suppose.”

The arls fell into contemplative silence as they studied the maps, each with their own private thoughts about Cailan’s plans, each guarded in their worries for the future and what might become of their lands. Above the crack of the fire and the snores of the dog dreaming under the table, the storm wound its way into the gap in conversation like a crone worrying at an old tooth. Eventually, Bann Sighard of Dragon’s Peak cleared his throat, the first utterance he had made since the beginning of the council.

“What about the rest of us, Your Majesty? Are we to fight Loghain?”

Roused from his musing, Cailan straightened, a new, martial gleam shining from his eyes as he gazed at them each in turn. His plan was daring, and would require enough flexibility to allow his loyal forces to counteract any moves Loghain might make, but as he drew his fingers over the map in battle lines and troop movements, he found his confidence growing as approval warmed the faces around him. Perhaps this conflict would be like something from the old tales – perhaps in his quest to unite Ferelden, King Calenhad himself had once stood in council like this one, sketching paths for his retainers to follow on the field.

It was almost enough to quash the hot jolt of guilt that settled somewhere behind his navel as his thoughts drifted to Anora, caught in the middle between father and husband, her loyalties shredded by necessity into two camps. Cailan only hoped that after the dust finally settled and she returned to Denerim, he would be able to explain everything.

He was so caught up in his worry that he was startled when Leonas Bryland requested an end to the meeting. The hour-candle in the centre of the table had burned down past the midnight mark, and even the blizzard outside seemed to drowse, so with a distracted nod Cailan gave them permission to depart.

“Wait, Uncle,” he sighed. “I know it’s late but there’s one more thing.”

“Your Majesty?”

The king hesitated, his earlier enthusiasm overshadowed by a need to choose his words carefully. He fiddled with the embroidered cuff of his shirt, frowning when he found a loose thread. “It’s about my brother.”

Eamon blinked, quick to cover his surprise. “Your brother? I don’t -”

“Alistair,” Cailan clarified. “My father told me everything. He’s in Rainesfere now, isn’t he?”

“I believe Teagan has taken him on as his right-hand,” the arl replied, a little stiffly. “He… objected when it was suggested the boy be given over to the Templars.”

“He has some martial training?”

“I believe so, Your Majesty.”

“Good.” Cailan’s mouth stretched into a familiar lop-sided grin. “I’ll let Teagan know I expect him to go to Edgehall. He can make use of himself on the battlefield, as a Theirin should.”

“It was made clear when King Maric brought Alistair to Redcliffe that he was to remain unacknowledged,” Eamon remarked with a frown. “For his own good if nothing else.”

“You worry too much, Uncle,” Cailan replied, clapping the older man on the shoulder. “Times have changed, and it’s always good to find new family when the old finds newer pastures.” An image of Anora’s soft, warm smile surfaced in his mind and smothered his moment of levity. He cleared his throat. “Besides, I never had a brother. I just hope he doesn’t win too many accolades before you let me lead a charge out of Denerim’s gates. I am still the king, after all.”

With a last chuckle, he whistled to his dog and walked with his uncle through the deserted passages until they reached the corridor separating the royal wing from the guest rooms of the palace. Eamon had a warm bed to go to, after all, and the pliant body of a wife waiting, as long as being disturbed at such an unmannerly hour didn’t make her too cross. The thought needled him more than was gracious, but he set it aside and bid his uncle a fond goodnight and turned away to his own dark rooms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI, the update schedule for this (so far as it exists) might become a bit more sporadic for a while because I'm moving house and also going on holiday, and all those other life sort of things that people tend to do in the summer.
> 
> Thanks for reading ^^


	3. I: The Scion of the Laurels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A messenger arrives at Highever, bearing news about the looming civil war in Ferelden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's read, commented, bookmarked, and left kudos on this fic so far. They really do make my day! The long wait for this chapter is partly because I've just moved house, which means I've been without internet (which is so much harder than I thought it would be). However, I accidentally wrote two chapters in one just before, so the next update should come much sooner.
> 
> Chapter note: 'Nebbing' is Englsih slang for 'being nosy'

_Eighteenth day of Wintermarch, 9:32 Dragon_

For the first time in weeks, the banks of sea fret that normally blanketed the Coastlands in the first months of the year had rolled back, and the sun shone over Highever. It hung low in the brittle dome of the sky, keeping the shadows within Castle Cousland’s walls deep enough to harbour heavy rimes of frost and the last drifts of snow not cleared away by the Teyrn’s groundskeepers. The early hour and implacable chill thwarted most attempts to venture outside, and even the servants forced into the open air by their duties did so with the single-minded purpose to be indoors again as soon as possible. The only sustained movement came from the lists in the northeast corner of the bailey, where two combatants armed with shields and wooden practice swords sparred in the fenced-off training yard, carefully watched by a third figure as they took advantage of the unexpected break in the weather to pummel each other senseless.

Dust rose in a cloud around the two warriors. They circled, trying to gain an advantageous angle to attack. Both were well-trained and experienced with their weapons, and knew enough of each other’s fighting styles to make the match an even one, which was why their instructor had decided on a change from their usual practice against horsehair dummies.

“Keep your footwork light until you’re ready to dig in,” the haggard arms master barked. Though a simple leather band was wrapped over one of her eyes, the other remained alight with critical focus as she watched her charges for mistakes. “And stop trying to hit her sword. Your targets are neck, armpit, groin. How many times, boy!”

Condensation dripped from the rims of the warriors’ helmets as they broke apart, fog pluming with every saw-edged breath. The taller of the two readjusted the grip on the hilt of her sword. Sweat dewed between Rosslyn Cousland’s eyes and made her scalp itch under the padding and her pinned hair, but despite the thick leather of her gauntlets, her fingers were still numb with cold. At this point, victory would be a matter of who could last the longest, and as her eyes met Ser Gilmore’s across the arena, she saw him reach the same conclusion.

“Keep your head – think!”

With a bellow like a maddened boar, Rosslyn charged in, hoping to take her enemy off guard. The castle walls echoed with the hollow clack of whitebeam on sturdy oak as she feinted at Gilmore’s shield then swept her blade in a contained arc to reach under his guard and bring an end to the match. She overstepped, and in that second he levered his weight to knock her attack off-balance. He hit out with the boss of his shield against hers, forcing her back, and came on with a grunt of effort, his sword cutting steeply into her defence. She tried to dodge around the change in direction but she was too close to the centre of his movement and a final crash of their shields sent her toppling into the dirt.

“What are you waiting for?” demanded their instructor. “Kill point! Now!”

Indecision vanished from Ser Gilmore’s face. Hefting his sword higher so he could drive downward with the final blow, he advanced on his target, who had yet to scramble back to her feet and only held her shield arm across her body to fend off injury. After twenty minutes of back-and-forth victory was finally his to grasp.

Just as he pulled his arm back, he noticed Rosslyn’s smirk beneath her helmet, but before he could work out the reason for it, her hand flashed out, pitching fine sawdust directly at his face. Instinctively, he flinched to protect his eyes, and so allowed his opponent to seize the opening she had been waiting for. Through blurred vision he watched her spring ram-like into guard. Time slowed as the polished blade of her practice sword swung and reversed for a backhand strike – Coachman’s Cut, he recognised dully – poised to slice downwards for the exposed cord of his neck.

“Hold!”

Rosslyn jerked her wrist to turn her blade aside, causing the honed edge to clatter against Gilmore’s pauldron instead of his neck-guard as the arms master advanced on them, muttering.

“I’ve seen more than enough,” she snapped. “Settle and straighten yourselves out.”

“But I was winning!” Rosslyn cried, flinging off her helmet with such force it dislodged several of the pins keeping the long, black river of her hair under control.

“Tch!”

Not quite brave enough to argue, she grumbled as she loosened the straps on her shield and followed Ser Gilmore to the edge of the ring, where he stood steaming with sweat and fruitlessly wiping his eyes. His helmet and gloves lay on the trestle table put out next to the ring by the servants to save them having to wait in the cold until the combatants happened to want refreshment.

“Did you have to throw dirt at me?” he asked as she clanked up to him and set her shield against the fence.

She grabbed the flask of small ale off the table and brought it to her lips. “War’s a fair game, my friend – Maker’s breath, that’s cold!”

He swiped at the strands of unruly red hair that had fallen in his eyes.  “Brain freeze? Serves you right.”

“I’ll be fine,” she choked. “And you can pay me back in the next round.” With a friendly chuckle she patted him on the arm and passed him the leather flask, watching with growing amusement as he took a hearty swig and then regretted it.

 “There’s _ice_ in it,” he spluttered.

“Yes, I know.”

“Is this a tilt yard or an Orlesian _salon_?” the arms master interrupted. “Am I here to teach you how to survive a battle or how to dance the remigold?” She glared at her two students, arms folded and winter cloak bristling about her shoulders, until their smiles shrank with embarrassment like hermit crabs retreating into their shells. When she deemed them contrite enough, she shoved her chin in Gilmore’s direction to indicate he should answer. “What went wrong in that bout?”

“With all due respect…” His tongue peeked out to wet chapped lips. “Lady Rosslyn cheated. She threw sand in my face to blind me.”

“Throw me under the horse, why don’t you?” the lady in question muttered next to him.

“Shut it.” The arms master shook her head with a weary sigh. “The girl wouldn’t have had a chance to blind you if you hadn’t stood gawping. Hesitation on the field will cost – how many times? If you’re lucky, it’ll only be an eye.” A muscle in the old woman’s cheek twitched, briefly deepening the long, purple line of scar tissue carved into the left side of her face.

“That was a sparring match. I was just -”

“What? Giving her a sporting chance? Look where that got you. And don’t you stand there smug as a bear with honey,” she added tartly to Rosslyn. “How many times do I have to tell you not to go rushing in like a bull with an opponent who’s twice the size of you?”

Stung, Rosslyn opened her mouth to argue, but quickly closed it again, remembering the way she had been forced to stagger backwards to avoid getting her skull bashed in. She was better from a horse, where speed and power and added height made her the match of the best of her father’s soldiers, but the day might come when she was fighting on foot, and with the possibility of war she had to be ready for anything.

“That’s what I thought,” the arms master grunted. “Again. And if either of you make any more stupid mistakes I’ll bump you right back down with the beginners until you convince me you can hold a sword straight.”

Sharing a look, the pair donned their gloves once more and took up their affects, rolling shoulders and testing grips to make sure they could settle into the full range of movement. Rosslyn eased out the twinge in her wrist where she had wrenched it to avoid hitting Gilmore before. This training was about stamina as much as martial skill, and aimed to match the gruelling conditions of battle as much as possible within the safe confines of the castle walls. As they touched swords to reengage, Rosslyn gritted her teeth against the protest in her muscles, reciting to herself one of the catechisms drilled into her since she had first picked up a weapon: _strength of arm requires no leap of faith_. At least she wasn’t suffering through it alone.

“The south gate! Open the gate!”

Rosslyn’s head snapped towards the cry, every nerve taut with expectation. A messenger? An ally seeking aid?

“Pay attention girl!” snapped the arms master. “How many times – never take your eyes off your opponent!”

But Gilmore had lowered his guard as well, and stood in anticipation as the clatter of galloping hooves sharpened in the freezing air. The guards on the curtain wall scurried like mice to defensive positions or to help lift the massive, groaning portcullis from its bed across the barbican. The sound changed as the rider turned off the road proper up the slope towards the gate. In seconds the horse burst through the gatehouse, the ring of its hooves echoing with its snorted, spiralling breath, its chestnut sides darkened with sweat as it cantered the last few strides to the keep. Without pause, the rider, dressed in the cream and gold livery of the king, vaulted from the saddle and took the stairs to the porter’s lodge two at a time, leaving the trailing reins to be gathered up by a groom. The horse itself, fine-boned but hardy, was a Westmorland, specifically bred and trained for endurance riding by King Cailan’s envoys, and that alone would have been enough to alert the castle to the importance of the rider’s message.

“News from West Hill, do you think?” Gilmore checked.

Rosslyn had thrown down her practice sword and was already was already stripping off her gauntlets. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to duck out early, Canavan,” she told the arms master. “If I may?”

The older woman shrugged. “Go. See your father, find out what’s happening.”

“Thank you.”

Still dropping layers of armour as she went, Rosslyn jogged across the tilt yard and past where the groom was walking the messenger’s horse in circles to cool it down. When she had disappeared inside the keep, Gilmore at last turned to where the arms master had already started retrieving the discarded equipment.

“What do you think’s happened?” he asked. “Civil war? Has Loghain started to march, maybe?”

“My job is to train the Teyrn’s soldiers, not neb about where he plans to send them,” came the terse reply. “If you’re done gawping, you can help me pick up after her ladyship.”

* * *

After a quick scrub with warmed water and soap, Rosslyn was ready to join her father and brother in the study. Graela, her maid, had been forward-thinking enough to lay out a fresh shirt, breeches and a quilted surcoat to keep out the cold, even if she had been somewhat put out that the teyrn’s daughter refused to at least wait until her hair had been brushed and put up in a style ‘befitting of a lady’. Instead, Rosslyn dodged out of her door with a leather cord tucked between her teeth, the elven woman’s half-hearted chidings following her along the corridor as she gathered her hair into one hand so she could tie it back in a simple tail. Cuno, her mabari, trotted at her heels, pleasantly awake after his morning nap by the fire and curious to see the reason for all the fuss.

The wall of noise that hit them on the top step of the family’s private floor was an almost physical force. The usual winter torpor of the keep had been blasted aside by whatever news the king’s messenger had brought, and Rosslyn watched as servants and chamberlains bustled every which way on inscrutable errands. At the foot of the stairs she ducked around a pair of footmen struggling to heft a linen chest she knew contained the ancient battle standards of her family’s vassals, which had not seen the light of day since the end of the Orlesian occupation, when her uncle had fronted the charge against Fort Drakon and fallen in the final siege of Denerim. The sight of it quickened her pace.

She spotted Aldous, her father’s secretary, in the corner of the atrium that branched off towards the kitchens, dictating orders for provisions to the undercook in a dry wheeze punctuated every now and then by a phlegmy cough. He towered over the poor woman, gaunt as a felandaris branch, and only spared Rosslyn the briefest incline of his head when he caught sight of her, before pointing with the end of his quill down the corridor that led to her father’s study. With a brief nod of thanks, she left him to his task and set her mind to the greater concerns that lay ahead.

Bryce Cousland glanced up from the missive in his hands as his study door banged unceremoniously against the wall. “Ah, there you are, Pup.”

The younger man beside him snickered. “You’re late, little sister,” he said. “We expected you at least fifteen minutes ago.”

“I’d like to see you escape Graela’s clutches any faster, _big brother_ ,” Rosslyn shot back. “Now that I am here, you can catch me up. What’s the word? Are we marching?” She turned to the messenger for her answer, taking in his muddied boots and wind-tussled hair. He was about her own age and might have been attractive if not for his pocked cheeks, but nothing marked him as extraordinary beside the blazon of the War Dog on his chest.

“My lady, I – umm…” The young man swallowed. His eyes darted down and back up as he scrambled to remember his courtly training in the face of a tumble of ebony hair and earnest, ice-grey eyes. The surcoat she wore fitted along the trim lines of her waist then flared into split skirts that gave free movement to her long, athletic legs; the deep blue fabric contrasted with the warm cream of her skin, especially at the neck where the collar had been left unbuttoned and her undershirt had rucked aside.

“Well? We’ve been waiting for news since First Day.”

“Let the lad alone, girl,” her father chided. “He’s ridden through the night to get here and a moment more will hardly kill you.”

Rosslyn dipped her head, missing the warning glint in Bryce’s eye that flushed the messenger’s cheeks scarlet with shame. “Yes, Father. My apologies, ser,” she said to the messenger. “Forgive my rudeness.”

Shaking himself, the young man offered her a bow, his confusion brushed aside and his diplomatic manners back in place. “Not rudeness, my lady, but eagerness. His Majesty would be overjoyed to see such enthusiasm from one as lovely as yourself.”

“Would he now?” she offered with a tiny, lop-sided smirk.

“To answer your question, Pup,” Bryce interrupted, “The king _has_ commanded a muster. We’ve been ordered to meet Rendon Howe with our forces and go to Denerim. I assume it’s on to Gwaren from there.”

“It’s to be civil war after all,” added Fergus darkly.

Rosslyn frowned. “But the Bannorn hasn’t been called.”

“His Majesty still believes that Teyrn Loghain can be reasoned with, my lady,” said the messenger. “He is calling his chief forces to him in the hopes that this matter between them can be settled without bloodshed, save for the bandits operating in Gherlen’s Pass, which Bann Teagan has been commanded to stop. Once the rebellion there has been put down, his orders are to travel east to Denerim to muster with the rest of the army, or so I believe.”

“And has no one sided with Teyrn Loghain?” asked Fergus.

“That I don’t know. Nothing has been heard of him since his… abrupt exit from the Landsmeet.”

Bryce snorted. He had witnessed Loghain’s paranoid display at the Landsmeet with his own eyes, and with his own ears had heard the man’s ridiculous accusations. He knew well the lengths to which a man might go to protect a daughter, but he had seen nothing in the supposed correspondence between King Cailan and Empress Celene to suggest he was planning to divorce his queen in favour of the younger woman. The story made no sense no matter which way it was spun, not least because, despite reports of her barrenness, it was said they made a happy pair. Anora, with her compassion and steady mind, made an effective queen, and was loved by the common folk and nobility alike, so to jilt her in favour of the ruler of Ferelden’s oldest enemy would be political suicide.

But fear of Orlais ran deep. Not one family, noble or peasant, had been left unscarred by the occupation. Stories of Meghren’s cruelty had become cautionary tales for winter firesides, and an entire generation had been weaned on the adventures of King Maric, Queen Rowan, and the Hero of River Dane. Next to them, Cailan was nothing but an untried whelp, and the Teyrn of Highever found it unsurprising that there would be some who, through fear or lust for power, might be swayed to the side of the Golden Drake of Gwaren.

It was not a subject to be discussed in front of a mere messenger, however.

“And Queen Anora?” Rosslyn asked. “What does she think of this?”

“I don’t know, my lady.” The messenger shuffled his feet. “No word has come from Gwaren since the Landsmeet, though one of my fellows was sent there at the same time I set out for West Hill, so there might be news I have not heard.”

“I see.” Discomfited, Rosslyn crossed to her father’s side of the desk, where papers lay stacked in poor order among quills and inkpots. Under everything, a map of Ferelden lay half-concealed, already stuck with different coloured pins marking the positions of various forces around Highever. More pins would be added in the days to come, but much yet remained unclear. Would the queen take her father’s part in the conflict or remain staunchly at her husband’s side? Rosslyn knew the older woman very little, except by reputation – they had been tactfully kept apart on the rare occasions they were at court at the same time – but she doubted Anora would be content to sit by and allow either of the men in her life to use her as a pawn. She was a practiced politician and a darling of the people, and on either side her support would lead others to follow.

Yet it was power not of her own making, coming instead through her relationship with her father and the king, and Rosslyn did not envy it. Even since before she came of age she had been compared to the famed beauty of the south, whose hair was burnished gold and who made up for a lack of pedigree with demure manners and by having a father seen by many as the saviour of Ferelden. Which of them would be queen and bear Cailan’s heirs had been a question bandied about by every gossipmonger in the royal court for years before Maric’s death, when the matter became somewhat more urgent.

Forced by circumstance to think about it now, Rosslyn recalled the fervent thanks she had sent to the Maker at the time the royal wedding had been announced. At fourteen, she had been rather _too_ young to be a wife and it had thrown her out of the running – as if she were nothing more than a horse to bet on in the Satinalia races – and Cailan had wed Anora instead. No, far better to be thought of as the feral scion of the Coastlands, lacking political influence but free to do as she chose, and with no incumbent, queenly ‘duties’ to perform. Oriana often told her she would develop an inclination for sex if only she would try it, but even if the argument were convincing, _that_ idea, of being little more than a vessel for some man’s bloodline, left Rosslyn nauseated.

She looked up from her contemplation of the map to find the conversation had moved on from her wandering thoughts.

“Do I have your answer, your lordship?” the messenger was asking. “I must stop at Amaranthine before I return to Denerim, so I would gladly pass on any message you have for Arl Howe.”

“I have a note for him,” Bryce replied, handing over a sealed square of paper. “There’s nothing secret in it. I’ll set off from here in two weeks to stand with him before the King’s banner. Just like old times. Tell him I’ll meet him at Vigil’s Keep.”

“Very good, your lordship.” The young man bowed again. “I should take my leave.”

Fergus held up a hand. “Stay for a meal, at least. Nan can spare five minutes to see you fed, and there’ll be a fresh horse waiting for you when you’re ready.”

“Th-thank you, my lord. I would be glad of that.”

“Rosslyn, will you show him the way to the kitchen? And then go and find Mother – she’ll want to know what’s happening.”

Rosslyn nodded, her brows creased with suspicion, but turned with all politeness to their guest and gestured for him to follow her.

When she had gone, with Cuno and the messenger padding at her heels, Fergus turned to his father with a wry quirk of his mouth. “I hope you don’t think I’m the one who’s going to be telling her she’s staying here.”

“You say that as if telling Oren he’s not coming will be any easier,” Bryce replied. With a weary sigh, he shuffled over to his desk and looked down at the map spread across it. He didn’t look up as Fergus tramped out, off to see to the initial preparations for housing the troops about to descend on the castle. The door slammed shut, leaving Bryce alone with only the crackle of the fire for company.

 _Barely a generation, and already another war brewing_ , he thought. _Maker help us all_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a lot of Cousland feels, okay.


	4. I: Interlude: Royal Correspondence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a last-ditch effort to avoid civil war, Cailan sends a letter to his Queen. The reply he receives is less than encouraging.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always go to everyone who's said such kind things about this fic so far. It's so great to know you're along for the ride and eager to see where I'm going with this!
> 
> When I first planned this fic, I was going to add codex entries in the style of the games because there was just so much in my head, but that idea fizzled out pretty quickly, though I do still have some notes somewhere... This chapter is pretty much the plot-relevant leftovers of what was already written.
> 
> One last thing: does anyone miss the illustrations I put in the first two chapters? I draw them for when I post the fic to tumblr, and I'm kind of proud of them, but would you like to see them on AO3 or do you think it would interfere with the story too much?

**This letter has been folded and unfolded dozens of times over so that some words are barely legible, the corners ripped as if it has once or twice been shoved hastily into a pocket to keep it hidden.**

 

Anora,

 

I must have started this letter a dozen times, and each time I scratch out my clumsy sentences all I can think about is how much better than me you are at this sort of thing. The easy charm with which I am credited in person falls flat when it comes to the written word – when it comes, my Dove, to you.

I miss you. There is no other way to say it. I miss hearing your laugh and holding you while you sleep. I even miss those long, tedious mornings in petty court where one problem comes after another and it seems we may never get a moment’s peace for ourselves. Your sound judgement and quiet warmth is sorely lamented on these cold winter nights, spent in exile from the one whose presence is dearer to me than sunlight to the first blushing petals of spring. This matter that has risen up between us has stained everything, not just our own lives but the whole of Ferelden, and it galls me to know that what should be private is, as ever, bared for the whole world to see. That pressure has always been with us, and harder on you, I know, with those busybodies and gossips discussing our affairs as if we were nothing more than horses put out to stud; and now the issue of an heir has once again come between us, but not for the reasons of which your father has accused me. I freely own to my mistakes; those times when the pressures of ruling became too much, when we could not find a way to talk and I sought comfort elsewhere; they were unworthy of you, but I cannot let it happen now. In this, at least, I may prove a proper Husband.

It is true that there has been communication between myself and Her Imperial Majesty Empress Celene of Orlais, but not on the subject your father fears; never once have I contemplated jilting you for another, and certainly not in favour of someone so connected to the Great Game, our sworn enemy of but a generation ago. I cannot speak of Her Majesty’s motives, but on my part it was a fostering of a trade agreement only, to make Ferelden seem more profitable as an ally than as a conquered province. Our fathers fought for this country in their own way, and now I must do no less, even if there happens to be less open bloodshed on this battlefield. I should have told you, my Dove, and my only excuse for not doing so is that I feared what would happen should your father find out.

Tell me that you, too, appreciate the irony of the result.

As for the other matter, that of my uncle’s letter, I did not tell you because I wanted to spare you. When our match was suggested, I agreed. At the time, though I did already admire you greatly, I thought it would be nothing more than a political union, designed to unite Ferelden in a time of uncertainty. King Maric’s loss was greatly felt by the people, and by all who followed his leadership, and I will always be grateful to your father for the advice he offered me during those weeks, when all I could feel was my own unreadiness to rule and every day was nothing more than a reminder that the man to whom I had always looked for guidance was no longer there. But it is not for a King to feel such things, and so for the sake of the future, I accepted his offer. It helped that we had grown up together, knowing the match was subtly intended all along, but I never expected how deeply I would come to feel for you. That I would come to love you as if you were part of my own flesh. You have always been the better part of me, and I would spare you any pain in the world, including this. My uncle’s attempts at persuasion were reprehensible, but I beg you to believe me when I say he has learned a hard lesson about repeating them.

By now you will know I say these things not only as a foolish husband, but as a King hoping to hold his country together before all we have worked for is lost. Dear Heart, darling Wife, you always were clever. Your father listens to nobody but you. Convince him of my words, of my sincerity, and we may yet avert this disaster before it can truly gain a foothold. Do not allow fear and the threat of war to undo the peace that has allowed Ferelden to prosper these past thirty years. Many of my advisors gave up hope of a diplomatic solution when the ravens brought news of the Golden Drake flying over the corpses of travellers in Gherlen’s Pass, but they lack the faith in you that I possess.

Please, Anora. If not for me but for the sake of all the lives that will be lost in this war, I beg you to sway your father’s resolve and stop this madness before it can begin. The people love you, and so do I, and it is my hope you will let that be a guiding light towards resolution.

I pray by Andraste’s Grace that this letter will reach you, and that it will not be intercepted by those whose desire for power would see Ferelden fall.

 

I remain, as ever, Your willing, devoted servant,

_Cailan Theirin_

In my own hand, 9:32 ~ 6th Wintermarch

**This letter looks as if it was scrunched in a fist, and then smoothed out again with care. There are splotches of ink on the page, nearly obscuring some of the words, as if they were written in a hurry.**

My dearest Cailan,

 

You should have told me. Forgive these words if they sound like censure, but I have seen the letters between you and the Empress with my own eyes, and learned where my father found them. This is not just another illicit affair deserving of a hollow apology. We have been cautious in the past of promoting closer ties with Orlais precisely because of what resentments might be stirred on both sides of our borders, or worse, to provide an opportunity for those who would wish to see Ferelden conquered once more. How must it look now, with these accusations lingering to fog the air with doubt among your own lords? I cannot believe the worst of the accusations levelled against you, but nevertheless I am sure my father acted out of nothing more than a desire to protect me and to defend Ferelden, as he always has. And I will not desert him for doing only what he thought was best – who then would he have left to console him?

And yet, I cannot truly blame you, either. The irony of your intentions is certainly not lost on me, but I do not blame you. The matter that has stood between us has pulled at you, too, and all the more for trying to shield me from the worst of the malingering that has so plagued us over the years. It pains me to think of you alone, and it breaks my heart to think of the space driven between us by so old a wound. I grieve for the past, for everything that might have been and for this new cloud that looms like summer lightning to try and tear us apart, but do not believe for an instant I regret the life I chose to share with you. Perhaps it is fitting that what we could never say in person is bared now in the naked words on this page.

When I accepted your proposal, I believed I knew you and your feelings better than you knew them yourself. You spent so much of your time absent from yourself, and you grew in those few weeks into a man who was almost a stranger. I knew you felt our marriage a convenience, and I made peace with that, only hoping that I might be of some solace as you mourned. The years since, and the depth to which my regard has grown have surprised me as well, but pleasantly. If not for the matter of an heir, and the scrutiny our lack engendered, it would have been near perfect.

Please understand, therefore, why I cannot take sides in this matter. This quarrel between you and my father brings me great pain, but to be asked to choose to favour one over the other of the two dearest to me would wound me still further. I trust your words, but I cannot deny the evidence of my own eyes, and the knowledge that you would have kept from me if not for my father’s announcement to the Landsmeet. I confess I do not know what to think.

My father keeps his plans from me, though I know from the calling of his banns that he does mean to act. I beg you to send your reconciliations to him directly, in order to avert this course towards the destruction of everything we hold dear. He is changed from when you saw him last, withdrawn and quieter than is his wont, and you would pity to see the shadow of duty that hangs in his eyes. He struggles with what he has wrought as a man who is only doing what he sees is his duty as a father and a protector of the realm. Do not fault him for that. Do not hold his loyalty to Ferelden against him.

I must finish this quickly, before someone discovers my messenger. It would displease my father to know I have sent you this letter in secret. I pray by the time this reaches you, it will not be too late to stop this war. Know that I miss you, my Dearest, and that nothing will warm my heart until I am in your arms once more.

 

In my own hand,

_Anora Theirin Mac Tir_

9:32 ~ 13th Guardian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Next chapter will have an Alistair ;)


	5. I: First Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair fights his first battle; in Highever, the Couslands muster for war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised an Alistair, and here he is. Complete with Hide Helmet mod.
> 
> Chapter note: 'Mo chridhe' is Clayne (Scots Gaelic) for 'my heart'  
> (and if anyone reading this actually speaks Scots Gaelic and would like to correct any of my probable errors, please, pleeeease do)
> 
> Chapter CW: Canon-typical violence.

_Twenty-eighth day of Wintermarch, 9:32 Dragon_

Pine sap spiced the mountain air where the freezing temperature of the previous night had cracked the bark of the trees, mixing their blood with the acrid waft of smoke stirred up from the bottom of the valley. Activity in the bandit camp was minimal, subdued by the bitter cold that permeated everything at such an altitude. Men huddled around fires, kept their fingers tucked safely away from the nipping frost, closed their ears to the low moans of injured comrades who had yet to meet the Maker. Four days since the siege of Ridderby had been broken by Bann Teagan, and this was all that was left. Teyrn Loghain had promised them wealth and reward for helping to purge Ferelden of the foreign menace – almost as bad as a Blight, he had said – and now their force lay scattered like dry leaves after a storm, those not already captured or dead lost in the wilderness of the Frostbacks. To most, the banner of the Golden Drake hanging limply over the commander’s tent had long since lost its glitter.

Within the treeline, a young man with tawny hair and eyes the colour of honey crouched in the company of about two dozen others, not daring to move despite a growing need to fidget. The clear mountain air brought the rhythmic beat of a blacksmith’s hammer to Alistair’s ears, the sound an unconscious echo of his own heartbeat. These were the men who had terrorised Ferelden’s countryside, had killed virtually unchecked for months, and soon, they would pay.

“Steady, lads,” grunted the squad captain. “Spook ‘em now and these bastards scatter like pigeons.” Her steely gaze remained locked on the ridge opposite their position, waiting for the signal to tell them the other flank of their force was ready to close the pincer and charge the camp. With any luck, the battle would be over quickly.

The soldiers refocussed their attention, a couple shifting to take the weight off deadened limbs. Scarves covered their faces to mask the cloud of their breath, and they had wrapped more scraps of cloth around buckles and mail to hide the jingle of the links. A wren chirped in bush nearby. To Alistair, the sound had a mocking quality, but his frayed nerves also found ominous shapes in the branches overhead and he jumped every time someone from the camp looked up, convinced something on his person – sword hilt, nose-guard, the buckles on his gauntlets – would give him away and ruin the ambush for everyone.

When he had begged Teagan to let him join this mission, he had thought only about the thick of the battle, his imagination supplying flashes from stories he had read as a child. Having been left to tend camp as his uncle’s right-hand during the siege, he had seen this as a chance to prove that he could make a name for himself as something other than an unwanted bastard. He could fight; he was good at it.

As the minutes ticked by, however, with nothing to do but watch the encampment go about its daily business, he could feel the thirst for action ebb away, swamped by insecurity. This would be his first skirmish, the first time killing something other than a training dummy. The men in the valley weren’t figures from stories, but real people with blood in their bodies and loved ones to fight for. Probably. When the company charged, the rebels would defend themselves, and if he didn’t fight, he would die. Perhaps even if he did fight. He flicked his gaze to the soldiers on either side of him, grim and silent, wondering if they shared his concerns, or if they were veterans of enough battles to be unaffected by fear.

Light flashed three times from the other side of the valley. Alistair tensed with those beside him as their squad captain returned the signal by angling her blade to the sun.

“Draw swords,” she instructed.

An elf stood beside her. At a nod, he knelt and nocked his bow with an arrow tipped with a knot of pitch-soaked rags. With utmost care, he clicked his flintlock to ignite the arrowhead, then stood, drew his arm back, and released. Alistair watched, mesmerised, as the arrow arced up over the trees. A few rebels looked up, startled, but it was already too late.

“Charge!”

Alistair surged forward with the others. They broke the cover of the forest with mad shouting and swords flashing in the sun. Somebody in the camp had started to bellow orders to organise a defence, but confusion distorted the commands. The wall of noise and the assault came from every direction at once. Bowmen managed to scramble to the defence, and loosed a volley that brought the first of the attackers down. The rest closed ranks behind their shields, Alistair among them, bowled along by the momentum that had carried them down the hill.

The impact made the valley quake. The rebels were pushed back, but gritted their teeth and struck at their attackers as the first screams of the wounded punctured the air. Alistair was nearly thrown off his feet by an unarmoured man wielding a hand-and-a-half sword, half-crazed and propelled forward by desperation. He ducked to the side to avoid his opponent’s downward swing, and only realised he had retaliated when the blood spattered across his face. His blade pulled easily out of the man’s armpit, slipping free of the dead weight like it was butter rather than bone, but there was no time for remorse. The death of their comrades had given the other rebels time to organise, and they came on now, better armed and baying for vengeance. Arrows spiked into friend and foe alike, skittering off armour or sinking deep into flesh before swords finished the job.

Training degenerated into instinct on both sides. Alistair lost sight of his fellow soldiers as the battle broke down into smaller skirmishes, his focus narrowed to the point of his sword and the need to stay alive. Twice he caught movement on the edge of his vision and swung to the attack, only to be arrested by the sight of an allied banner on his opponent’s surcoat. Once he came to the rescue, smashing his shield into the face of a giant who had managed to topple one of Teagan’s soldiers and was bearing down on him with a club. He stabbed the man through the heart, checked the soldier still lived, and spun to meet the next attack with mechanical savagery.

And then, like morning mist burned away by the sun, there were no more men left to fight. The whimpers of the dying echoed above the last clangs of steel, and pervading everything, the stench of mingled blood and bile that made the ground slippery beneath his feet. He blinked, certain that at any moment someone would charge with a weapon aimed for his head. Instead, he heard the captain barking orders into the silence, calling to those of her men still alive to tally the casualties and to organise a guard for their prisoners, who would be taken to Edgehall and given over to Arl Fergus for judgement.

All Alistair could do was stare at the dead. He had thought he might feel sick, but shock had already set in, and other than his trembling knees, all he felt was a hollowness in his gut as he checked himself over and found no sign of injury. Relief washed over him. He had survived. Sweat and blood stung his eyes – his sweat, others’ blood – but it _stung_ , and his arms _ached_ , and the sensations made him laugh through the stitch in his lungs until he gasped.

“Your first battle?” asked a kindly voice next to him.

Still breathless, Alistair only nodded.

“It takes ‘em different ways. Some get angry, some mope. If you’re up to it though, lad, there’s still work needs doing.” The old soldier ambled off, weighted down by the sword of mercy in his hand.

Wiping grime from his forehead, Alistair sobered and set about searching the tents to help stockpile supplies, until he found himself standing under Gwaren’s banner, listing on its splintered flagpole. He stared at it for a long moment, trying to place the emotion it sparked in him, and when the feeling remained elusive, he gave into his frustrations and tore it down.

* * *

A world away, Eleanor Cousland stood at the top of the tower of Castle Cousland, her back stiff as an iron rod against the wind that snagged the hem of her cloak and fluttered wisps of grey hair about her face. The tower’s view stretched in every direction, from the rugged, undulating cliffs of the coast to the north, to the rolling pastures south of Highever that were perfect for raising horses. Her gaze, however, was fixed east, following the long, glittering line of her husband’s army as it snaked towards the horizon. The host had set out later than planned, and now the winter sun descended, bringing down cold night as it stained violent red light across the sky and made the polished tips of the soldiers’ spears gleam like garnets. Eleanor’s expression remained inscrutable in the face of such an omen.

“Mother?”

Rosslyn pulled her cloak tighter about her shoulders as she stepped out onto the parapet. Like Eleanor, she was still dressed in the formal gown she had worn to see off the soldiers. The layers of fine wool and crushed velvet were decent enough protection in a draughty hall, but still too thin to be much use exposed to proper weather. The wind tugged, and stole away one of the white blooms Graela had woven into her dark hair.

It seemed so strange that their parting had only been hours ago, a ceremonial affair with bugled fanfares and sprigs of feathery knightsfoil gifted for luck in battle. Her parents had embraced on the castle steps, in full view of the officers gathered in the bailey and heedless of the disapproving glance from Mother Mallol. The pair had only eyes for each other, and the tenderness they shared when Eleanor knotted her favour to her husband’s wrist and brushed her hand along his cheek seemed too private to be shared with the rest of the world. Fergus, too, bright in his polished armour, had kissed Oriana farewell, and then gripped Oren’s hand tight in his and whispered words of courage for his ears alone. The scene left Rosslyn herself feeling strangely out of place amidst the gathering. Her ire at being left behind had mellowed, but the richly embroidered fabric on her sleeves itched, and the stays that shaped her breasts dug into her ribs and restricted her breathing. Churlishness would be unworthy of her station, however, so she hid her uneasiness behind an appearance of serenity, as she had been taught to do, and waited.

“Don’t look so glum, Pup,” her father teased. “You’ll be out there soon enough, felling anyone witless enough to come within reach of your sword.”

“I know just the thing to cheer you up,” Fergus added, breaking away from Oriana. “I’ll bring you back a husband.”

Despite the light tone, his face clouded with worry. Matters had been uneasy between them since she had been told she was staying put, but Rosslyn had no desire to leave their relationship on a sour note; it had the feeling of ill fortune.

“Your taste in men is terrible,” she scoffed. “Bring me back a _destrier_ instead.” She drew her brother into an embrace, tighter than she had meant it to be. “And be careful.”

“I will, little sister.”

“Do I get a hug?”

The siblings broke apart.

“Father –”

“Now, no more, Pup,” Bryce warned. “I need you here. Who else could I trust to be in charge while I’m away?”

Eleanor shot him a sly smile. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, shall I, dear husband?”

“I know you’re only saying that to make me feel better.” Rosslyn gripped her father’s hand where it rested on her shoulder. “I should be coming with you.”

“Me too!” Oren cried from Oriana’s skirts. “I can slay the bad men!”

Bryce chuckled at his grandson, but the laughter failed to reach his eyes. “I have a feeling before long this war will drag all of us into the fighting. But until we get back, you’re in charge. Keep up your studies, protect your mother, and –”

“Stay out of trouble?”

“As much as is possible for you,” Fergus snickered.

Behind them all, Eleanor cleared her throat. “The soldiers are waiting for their commanders. If you are so determined not to wait even a week for Wintersend, you had better go.”

“Eager to see me gone, wife?” Bryce pulled her closer by the waist, delicately tilting her chin up with his gauntleted fingers. “An illicit lover or two hidden under the bed?”

The Teyrna snorted. “As if I’d have anyone but you, my handsome Soldier.”

“Even after so long, my lady Seawolf? Come then, one more kiss for luck.”

And that was it. Bryce had mounted his bay charger, the ancestral sword of the Couslands belted at his hip, and with Fergus at his side had spurred onwards in a collected canter. The mounted ranks of his house guard had followed, drawing into line behind their teyrn in three columns like a living mantle of steel and horseflesh, with his standard-bearers leading and the banner of the Laurels snapping in the wind. After them, the querulous mass of infantry shivered into ordered blocks around their own battle flags, and tramped out onto the road. While they marched, they seemed endless, but all too soon, the lists and the infantry camp beyond the walls lay empty.

In the suck of silence that followed, the imaginations of those left behind turned the bailey into a gaping maw, with the battlements serving as giant teeth that led to the hollow gullet of the barbican that had swallowed their loved ones whole. A dog barked at the silence; the servants scurried to begin the clean-up; with the steadying presence of his father disappeared, Oren began to cry.

“Is everything in order?” Eleanor asked now.

Rosslyn huffed a sigh. “The cavalry muster will take another week to complete. Horse lines are being set up west of the walls to accommodate those coming from Marl-Land. By the time they’re ready, Commander Anthras should be here to lead them after the infantry.”

“Is that bitterness I hear?” her mother checked.

“No,” came the easy lie. “Just worry.”

“If you had gone with them, _mo chridhe_ , you would have been just one more soldier, like a single grain of sand on a beach,” Eleanor replied, not fooled. “Here, you can make a difference.” She turned to her daughter, cupping her cheek in a dainty, gloved hand. “Besides, would you truly ask me to send both my children off, and never know if I will see them again?”

Rosslyn’s eyes, the truest expression of her Clayne heritage, flickered over the dust clouding the road east. “No, Mother.”

The two women settled into silence, content to let the wind chatter about the stone. Eleanor returned to her vigil, but whether her brows creased with concentration for prayer or premonition was hard to say. As Rosslyn studied her, guilt bubbled like bad grog in her stomach. She had dreamed of battle, of getting to ride off and inspire great tales like the ones she had been weaned on, but nobody ever talked about the strength of those left behind – the ones who fortified the walls and organised supply lines and lightened people’s fear by hiding their own. Already, plans for siege had been drawn up, guard rotations managed to deal with their dwindled numbers, and all of it completed by the Teyrna with the same calm authority she used to inspect the decorations for Satinalia.

“Do you ever miss it?”

Eleanor blinked out of her reverie. “Do I ever miss what?”

“Being aboard the _Mistral_. Fighting Orlesians and storms, and getting all the glory.” Rosslyn flashed a lop-sided smirk. “Having songs sung about you.”

Her mother groaned. “That last… well. Your father thought it romantic, at any rate.” She sighed. “I would be lying if I said memories of that life didn’t stir my blood, that sometimes the land is too quiet, too stable under my feet. But the cold gets into my fingers these days, and for all the gold in Rivain I wouldn’t have wished another war on Ferelden.” She glanced down at her hands. Beneath the fleece-lined gloves her palms were still calloused from the use of bow and blade, her knuckles flecked with white scars received in another life, under another name. “What storm comes will come, as the Lady wills,” she intoned, her gaze turning north to the sea. “And we must do all we can to weather it.”

Rosslyn looked sharply at her mother. Mentions of the Alamarri gods were rare, muffled by invocations to the Maker and Andraste except in private moments beyond the prying ears of the royal court. To hear an invocation to the Lady of the Skies now sent and unpleasant shiver over the back of her skull.

“Come back inside,” she said. “Nan sent me to find you.”

“Did she now? Well, it has never been wise to keep that woman waiting.” Eleanor chuckled as she shuffled towards the tower steps, leaving Rosslyn to be buffeted by the wind. She hesitated and folded her hands beneath her cloak to ward off the chill, not quite ready to give up the solitude that for the first time in hours allowed her to sag against the unease chewing at her insides. Above, the first star of Judex pricked the darkening sky; a cold, distant thing completely disinterested in the worries of the people scurrying through the world below. Leaning against the parapet wall, the young woman swallowed, her mind following her eyes down the eastern road towards the future, and the fact that for the first time in her memory, Wintersend would come without her father’s laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Feel free to ignore*
> 
> This will be explored in a bit more depth later, but for now I wanted to expand a bit on the culture I imagine for Ferelden in this story. There are a lot of modern elements in Thedas, but to me, Ferelden has the feel of early Anglo-Saxon England in terms of religious beliefs and social politics. (Hello, my name's Lyke and I'm an archaeologist who loves Anglo-Saxons.) On the one hand there's the dominant religion supported publicly by the nobility because of the Chantry's imperial connections, while in places that are a bit more remote, and among the common people, older beliefs hold sway. Following the Alamarri ways might have been a way for Fereldens to quietly resist the Occupation, for example, but that's a discussion for another time/place.  
> For Eleanor, raised with Clayne traditions, following Andrastianism is a matter of political expediency, as it was for many rulers of English kingdoms during the 7th - 10th centuries BCE. The Clayne themselves are canonically the most northern offshoot of the Alamarri tribes. There's very little about them in the game lore, except a passing mention or two in the World of Thedas books, but like that's going to stop my obsessive worldbuilding tendencies. Especially since both of those things play massively into Rosslyn's identity. But I'll say no more on that for now, otherwise I will literally talk (type?) forever...
> 
> And remember kids: feedback feeds fic ;D


	6. I: A Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the middle of the night, word comes to Highever of an ambush.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! Things are really starting to get moving now.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has left feedback for this story so far. Knowing that you're sticking with it and wanting to know where it's going keeps me excited to write it.
> 
> Notes: "Culodhne" is pronounced "Cuh-lon"
> 
> Chapter CW: None

_Third day of Guardian, 9:32 Dragon - Wintersend morning  
_

The dog’s eyes shuddered in his sleep. He was splayed across the foot of the canopy bed – his designated spot since growing too large to cuddle against his mistress’ shoulder. Even in deepest slumber he guarded her against harm, his ears restless as he filtered the sounds of the castle about him, from his mistress’ deep, even breaths to the hiss of embers in the grate and the rattle of rain on the faraway roof. Everything was as it should be. A log in the fire sparked, jolting the dog from his doze, but when nothing came of the sound he allowed himself to settle back, stretching out his paws with a doggy sigh as his wide, blunt head found a convenient pillow on his mistress’ calves. By morning her feet would be numb from a lack of circulation, but she wouldn’t mind so long as he was comfortable.

A new sound alerted him. Voices, approaching the atrium that served the whole family; one, he had known since puppyhood, but the other was unfamiliar, rasping and urgent in its inflections. In one smooth wave the dog’s hackles stood on end along his back, and his war-rage stirred the air in the pit of his lungs, pushing it through his throat in a growl that could turn a charging horse. The warning reverberated in the night-time quiet, finally waking the woman whose poor senses had so far kept her oblivious to the danger. He growled again, louder, but it did not receive the attention he wanted.

“Cuno, go back t’ sleep. ‘s just Marcena lighting the fires.” And she rolled over with a grunt, intent only on ignoring him.

Cuno huffed. It was not the first time this had happened.

The voices stopped outside the chamber door, their argument muted by the early hour but no less venomous, and the potential threat in them could not be ignored. Stiff-legged, the dog hopped off the bed with a low _wuff_ and marched to the door. A draught breathed through the crack, bringing a cloud of odours to his nose: cold, wet, hunting smells that had no business being _inside_ the castle. It only made the growl rumble louder in his chest.

“Maker’s _breath_ , Dog.”

Rosslyn had finally sat up in her nest of winter furs, rubbing one hand down the side of her face as she cursed and tried to locate her slippers in the dark. Cuno watched her fumble from his position by the door, wagging his stub of a tail in encouragement even as his muzzle twitched towards the intruders in the beginnings of a snarl.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” she grumbled. One arm of her dressing gown still trailed on the floor from the struggle of putting it on and having to walk at the same time. “I swear, if this is about Oriana’s cat again, I’m going to -”

Her hand stilled on the doorknob, all traces of sleep drained away as she picked out the argument in the corridor.

“For the last time, my lady is sleeping. You are not to disturb her!”

“If she’s sleeping, wake her up.”

“Lower your voice, churl. Any news _you_ have can wait until morning.”

“I will not be diverted by a mere house servant. I come from the Teyrn himself. Wake the lady up.”

Graela’s indignant retort was lost as Cuno chuffed, his nose keen against the crack in the door, bristling with offence at the alien smells in his domain.

“Easy there,” Rosslyn muttered, as much to calm her dog as her own racing mind. She pulled her dressing gown close around her shoulders and wound her fingers into the loose skin at his neck. “Let’s see what’s going on, first.”

The dog groaned in complaint but stepped back obediently.

“Good boy.”

As Rosslyn hauled open the door, the two arguers faltered, frozen mid-sentence with shock at being interrupted until decorum reasserted itself and the both dropped into hasty, repentant bows. Cuno padded officiously past her so he could sniff the stranger’s boots, his head held at an imperious angle as if the entire scene were beneath his dignity.

Graela recovered first and had already begun lilting apologies, but Rosslyn’s gaze never wavered from the messenger, who hadn’t changed out of her travel-stained surcoat or cleaned the mud from her boots – or waited until morning to deliver her news.

“You come from my father?”

The messenger’s cheeks, flushed with colour from the cold, darkened further at such direct scrutiny, so that her birch-blonde hair stood in starker contrast to her brown skin. Though she looked human, the woman had elven ancestry, judging by the unusual paleness of her eyes and the fine angle of her cheeks, which might explain Graela’s particular hostility.

“I – yes, my lady. Glenlough has been ransacked.”

Rosslyn felt the blood drain out of her face. “Ransacked?” She knew Glenlough from her studies, could picture it perfectly on the map of her family’s lands that she had been taught to know since infancy. It was a settlement in the teyrnir’s heartland, too large for a village but too small to properly be called a town, that owed its prosperity to the Culodhne Road, which transported raw materials from the wool industry and a smattering of open cast mines rich in volcanic aurum. Its wealth made a tempting target for raiders, but its size and fortifications should have discouraged any but the most reckless attack. For it to have been completely destroyed – without even a call for help…

“How long ago?”

“No more than a few days, my lady,” came the reply. “We found the Vale envoy station burned to the ground two days ago, so His Lordship asked us to scout the land ahead for the culprits. When we found armed men camped in the town, they attacked us. Only a few made it back. He sent three riders to seek the aid of Arl Howe, and me and two others back here while he went on ahead, so we could warn you.”

“Where are the other two riders now?” Rosslyn asked. She felt her nails dig into her palms and knew there would be crescent-shaped bruises there later.

The messenger squeezed her eyes shut, as if trying to fend off a bright light. “They’re dead, my lady,” she croaked. “We were ambushed along the road and they… they held back to buy me the time to get to you.”

Rosslyn swallowed. She had always been taught to respect the soldiers under her command, the people who went out onto a battlefield and died on trust that it would be for a greater purpose, but until that moment it had always been an abstract concept. It hadn’t been _real_. Hesitantly, she stretched out her hand to clasp the messenger’s shoulder. Their eyes met for a brief moment before she let go and turned to Graela, who was trying to demurely conceal a yawn behind her hand.

“Wake my mother,” Rosslyn commanded.

“Yes, my lady.”

“Then send for Aldous, Ser Gilmore, and Masters Tolly and Canavan. I wish to see them all in my father’s study without delay.”

“At once.”

“What is your name, Lieutenant?” she asked when her maid curtsied and slipped away.

“Morrence, my lady. Ada Morrence,” the messenger replied, still astounded that one so high-born had actually touched her, sodden armour and all.

Rosslyn nodded, already sweeping towards the stairs. “Come with me.”

Morrence shook herself out of her daze and jogged to catch up. The lady’s legs were longer than hers, and every so often she had to take a ridiculous hop forwards to avoid being left behind, but did not dare ask for a slower pace. Beneath the loose cotton sleep clothes, fur slippers, and embroidered robe of luxuriant Highever felt – materials costlier than any her father, a tailor, had ever been trusted with – the teyrn’s daughter walked with the powerful stride of a general in full armour, her eyes fixed rigidly ahead, black hair feathered back over her shoulders by the force of her march.

As they continued down into the public section of the castle, Morrence realised her mistake; the balled fists and straining neck weren’t the manifestation of a daughter’s anxiety for her father, but the opposite. Rosslyn’s was the alertness of a courser after a hare. She was _excited_.

They turned the final corner into the teyrn’s study, where a whirl of servants still in nightclothes busied themselves opening the room. Flames already blazed in the fireplace, throwing warmth and light onto the stacks of papers and books that had been moved off the desk to make way for a map of Highever so large it filled an entire druffalo hide. Two chamberlains held it flat while a third pressed bronze paperweights onto each corner to prevent it from rolling back up. Across the room, still others had set up a trestle table and were laying it with bread, butter, cold meats, and fruit in case anyone should get hungry.

Morrence stumbled to a halt in the doorway, mouth agape, until a page carrying a teak chest under his arm irritably told her to move. Not even professional soldiers achieved such a level of organised chaos, and certainly not without a staff sergeant barking orders, and yet these people, who had surely been fast asleep not half an hour before, seemed telepathic in the way they bustled about, almost but not quite colliding.

Rosslyn, who had cut through the mob with the grace of a swan through weeds, glanced over her shoulder and noticed the nonplussed expression on the messenger’s face, and beckoned her over.

“Can you mark our army’s position on this map?” she asked. “And that of the enemy?”

Morrence nodded. The same page who had been rude to her before stepped forward, offering the now-open chest, which contained a selection of small wooden blocks, almost like children’s toys. Half were blue, stamped with the Laurels, while the rest were dyed black and bore no mark at all. All too aware of the stern gazes on her back, she wasted no time arranging the tiles to reflect what she had seen on the road.

“I can’t be entirely sure about these units here,” she explained sheepishly. “And this information is a number of days old now.”

“Nevertheless, thank you,” Rosslyn replied, her arms folded as she surveyed the map. “There’s a few moments yet before the others arrive,” she added, nodding towards the trestle in the corner. “Rest, eat something.”

“Oh no, my lady, there’s no need, I -”

“The night is not yet over, and I may still have need of you,” the lady interrupted. “Besides which, there’s nothing more for you to do right now. Take the opportunity while it’s available.”

“But… uhm. Yes, my lady.”

As it turned out, there was little time to savour or even swallow the food. One by one the people Rosslyn had sent for arrived, in various states of dishevelment. First came the Teyrna, wrapped in furs to keep away the chill, her face drawn into deep lines of worry. She embraced her daughter, asking for details, but Rosslyn remained firm that she would wait until everyone had gathered to avoid repetition of the facts. And in they came, first the teyrn’s elderly chamberlain, already with quill to paper, followed by the castle’s horse and arms masters, their uniforms crisp despite the early hour. Last to arrive was Ser Gilmore, who flushed crimson at the sight of his liege’s daughter standing before him in nothing but her nightclothes.

“Oh don’t start that,” she snapped when he started to protest. “This is important.” She signalled to Morrence and the messenger stepped forward to relay everything she had seen.

“Seems to me Glenlough is nothing more than bait to a trap,” sniffed Canavan, the grizzled arms master, when she had finished. “There’s other places with more gold, that in’t along the main road.”

The rather portly Master Tolly grunted. “Bandits don’t destroy towns so utterly. Too much risk involved. They raid, they burn the odd farmhouse, but this – this was to send a message.”

“Indeed,” Eleanor replied darkly. “However, it would help to know _who_ would go to such barbaric lengths to get my husband’s attention.”

“Th-they bore no standard, your ladyship,” Morrence stammered from her place at the end of the table. “Any who did get close enough to see got shot down.”

“They’re a threat. That’s all that matters.”

All eyes turned to Rosslyn. She had straightened, the set of her shoulders an exact, unconscious echo of her father’s.

“Whoever these men are, they have murdered innocents within our borders, and they tried very hard to make sure nobody here would know about it.” Her eyes blazed a challenge at each of them in turn. “Why?”

“An ambush,” Gilmore answered, his gaze on the map. “They want to make sure no reinforcements arrive.”

The arms master hummed her agreement. “This’d be Loghain’s doing, somehow, wanting to take his opponent’s biggest supporter off the board. No militia matches Highever’s for training or equipment.”

“Then we have to stop him.” Rosslyn’s tone was mild, but her hands had curled into fists on the edge of the table.

Of them all, Eleanor knew best what that meant, and her heart constricted. “Daughter…”

“These tiles show where Highever’s forces were early yesterday, still a good distance from Glenlough. I know my father – he would wait for a full day before launching an attack on a stronghold like this – which means as of now, he hasn’t made his move, and that means there’s still time for us to help him. But only if we move quickly.” Rosslyn forced a calming breath into her lungs and looked up expectantly.

“How?” Tolly eventually asked into the uneasy silence.

“The cavalry is still here,” Rosslyn reminded him. “Any other force would be too slow.”

“But – but they still lack training!” he spluttered in reply. “Most learned to ride barely three weeks ago! And who would lead them? Commander Anthras won’t be here until next week, and -”

Rosslyn drew herself up to her full, considerable height. “Master Tolly, as the highest ranking cavalry officer left in Highever, and the only one with battle experience, I am returning to you your old rank of Captain.” Her tone allowed no argument. “Have your troopers ready to leave in two hours, travelling light. We must reach Glenlough with all speed we can muster.”

The newly promoted captain opened his mouth to argue, his jowls quivering, but she cut across him before he could organise the pattern of his thoughts.

“They’re the only force that may stand in the way of our army being wiped out, my father and brother along with them.” She grinned. “I know you can do this, Tolly, I have faith in you, and your abilities. You taught me to ride, remember? If you can do that, you can do anything.”

Defeated, Tolly sighed. Over the hill he might be, his bones cracking with every movement, but he remembered how it felt to charge forth with his sword held high and his throat bursting with a battle cry. He raised his chin.

“It will take at least a day and a half to reach Glenlough if we are to pace ourselves ready to fight,” he informed her. “What if the battle is already lost?”

Rosslyn’s smile turned feral. “Then our enemy had better pray their injuries are not too grave to face a second one. Lieutenant Morrence, can I count on you to guide us?”

Morrence jumped at being directly addressed. “Uh, yes, my lady. Of course.”

“Thank you. Go with Tolly to see to oversee the preparations.”

“I’ll get going as well,” the arms master grumbled. “I’ll open the armoury for your lads, and call out the guard for drills. If some bugger wants to come and play Capture the Flag, we’ll be ready for them.”

“Good to hear.”

The door swung shut behind the arms master with a clap that seemed to take all other sound with it. Despite the cold seeping through the stone, the air in the teyrn’s study felt close, crackling like an August afternoon brewing with storm clouds on the horizon. Rosslyn’s gaze returned determinedly to the map before her, but not even she could fool herself that she was finalising strategy. She could feel her mother’s eyes on her.

“You’re not going,” Eleanor told her quietly.

Rosslyn ignored her. “Gilmore, I’m leaving you in charge of the garrison here. Have the city watch alerted, and whatever steps can be taken for a siege in the next few days, see that they are done. As soon as possible, send a message to Bann Teagan at West Hill and have him bring his forces east. We need to be prepared.”

Gilmore swallowed, his sight darting between the two women as he tried to work out whose side he should take in the coming argument.

The Teyrna’s patience snapped. “Rosslyn!”

“There’s no one else, Mother,” came the tired reply. “Tolly has no experience as a battle commander.”

“And you do?”

“Ross- my lady,” Gilmore interjected with nervous cough. “I beg you to listen to your lady mother. Let Captain Tolly and the lieutenant go.”

Scowling, Rosslyn shook her head. “We have few enough officers as it is. It must be me.” She turned to face her mother at last, only to quail under her long, hard look and the downward turn of her mouth.

“Leave us,” the Teyrna ordered Gilmore. “Go to your duties. Now,” she added, when the young knight stepped forward as if to argue.

He froze, halted by the icy tome of command, as his training had taught him. For an instant he struggled, but having been dismissed, he might as well fade into thin air for all the attention he would get. With reluctance, he bowed and turned smartly on his heel, casting one last look backwards at Rosslyn as he marched from the study. She stood with her hair tumbling over one shoulder, arms folded and feet planted, without any trace of the girl he used to play with, who joked with him in the sparring ring and told all her secrets; she had grown out of his reach, and he could no longer protect her.

“So,” Eleanor pressed when only the two of them remained. “It appears you’re getting your wish. You get to go to war after all.”

“Mother…” Rosslyn bit down on her argument. “I have to do this.”

“No you don’t,” came the weary reply. “And yet, there’s too much of both of us in you to ever think you would just sit quietly behind. I had hoped you wouldn’t be swept up in war.”

“ _You_ were, once.” Rosslyn took a step closer to her mother, hardly daring to breathe. “You’re not going to argue with me?”

“Would you change your mind if I did?”

“No.”

A bittersweet smile touched Eleanor’s lips. “I wanted you all safe. But we each have our parts to play, and I won’t wail and tear my hair just because life isn’t to my liking.” She scoffed, drawing herself up. “We are Couslands, and we do what must be done.”

Rosslyn felt her eyes prickle. To her, the stories of the Seawolf’s exploits during the Occupation had always been a distant thing, a legend to add to all the others that was fundamentally disconnected from the soft, comforting presence known as ‘Mother’. The woman before her had grown wiry with age, and the stress of recent days had carved ever deeper lines into the high angles of her face, but she remained undaunted, and for the first time Rosslyn was truly able to see Eleanor Mac Eanraig as she had been, the commander of the pirate all Orlesian captains feared. In comparison, she herself was nothing but an eager child still playing with toy swords – a pup, just like her nickname.

She wanted to be more.

“I’ll bring them back. I swear it,” she said, moving to clasp her mother’s hands in reassurance.

“Time is wasting.” Eleanor returned her daughter’s grip, a tight smile hidden in the corners of her eyes. “You’d best go get dressed. Nobody goes to war in their nightwear.”

“I suppose armour _would_ be more practical,” Rosslyn agreed with a smirk.

The two pulled briefly into a hug, and then there was no more room for softness. Rosslyn rolled her shoulders back, fully a head taller than her mother, and, whistling for Cuno to come to heel, marched into the hall, calling for her arms. She failed to notice how her dog paused in the doorway, his head cocked to the side as he looked back at the old woman and saw the pride on her features crumble into pain. He wagged his tail once, twice, but gained no answering relief, so with a whine he turned away and trotted to catch up to his mistress.

In what seemed like no time at all, the long line of cavalry was clattering across the Marl Plain, strung out under the torches they used to light their way, the fire reflected tenfold off harness and mail to create the monstrous illusion of a dragon twisting in the dark. The rain had eased in the preceding hour, rolling off to the south in surrender to the frost and the pinkish glow of Sevuna low on the horizon. Despite the cold and the early hour, the riders whooped and sang to stir themselves for battle, answered by whinnies from their horses. The noise rattled up and down the column and echoed with such force it sparked lights from curious city windows. On the battlements of Castle Cousland, the Teyrna closed her eyes to the clamour. Her head bowed against the wind, which tore at her cloak and the snapping Laurels flying from the gatehouse tower, whittling into her bones. _My last child gone._ Down beyond the river, bells began to ring as first one chantry tower then another tolled the first hour of Wintersend morning.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *feel free to ignore*
> 
> In the World of Thedas books, it mentions that Eleanor never told her children that she used to be a pirate. The only thing that's less hard to believe is that Bryce didn't take every opportunity to wax lyrical about his beautiful amazing awesome pirate wife to anyone who stood still for longer than a minute, including their children. So I fixed it.
> 
> The other thing for this chapter is the map - it's got a bit more detail than the Origins game map, but most of the places have been located based on information from the games and the extended lore. Some of the places I've made up might be important later ;)
> 
> Comments and kudos appreciated!


	7. I: A Cousland And Her Duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosslyn swoops in to save the day, but battle is not at all what she thought it would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, a big thank you to everyone who has discovered and stuck with this story. I means a lot to know you're out there, and every comment, on the writing, the artwork, or the story, really makes my day.
> 
> Chapter CW: canon-typical violence, battle scenes
> 
> Cousland feels ahoy.

_Fourth Day of Guardian, 9:32 Dragon_

Blood fountained upwards with the downward slice of Rosslyn’s sword, but she had no time to check whether the man was dead. Lasan, her horse, lurched beneath her, his hooves lashing out at any pushed too close by those behind, and only the specially designed cavalry saddle allowed her to keep her seat. In the time it took her to rebalance, another soldier pressed in to fill the gap left by his fallen comrade, blade raised to hack at her leg. She killed him. The force of her swing carried through to chop at the arm of a third aiming to strike her mount from under her. He reeled away, only to have his scream cut short when Cuno leapt up and tore out his throat.

This had been the pattern for almost an hour now, her face set in a wolfish snarl as she carved a bloody path through the enemy ranks, the ring of steel and the blood pounding in her ears enough to drown out the cries of the soldiers who fell to her sword. At her side, the vanguard of her force mimicked her savagery, and gradually the line before them grew ragged. Rosslyn saw open space and kicked Lasan towards the gap. The charger roared his fury and was answered by whinnies and shouts as the cavalry thundered back onto open ground, only to prop right towards the enemy’s latest scrambling defence.

She chanced a look back at her people as she steered them round for another charge. At every pass, her ranks thinned, more saddles were emptied by sword or axe, but the flotsam of bodies left in their wake showed the effectiveness of their tactics. The enemy was tiring.

She had followed the detritus of battle for the better part of the day, caution warring with urgency as she read the signs of the field – her father’s army had been met with overpowering force at Glenlough, and when they had tried to fight a retreat, they had been driven south off the road, away from Highever and any help that might come from there. The enemy had not counted on Rosslyn, or the column of horse she had brought charging down out of the sunset to smash into their unprotected rear. In her first pass the enemy’s contingent of archers had been entirely swept away, trampled under hoof or else hacked to pieces as they gawped in surprise.

Since then, she had plucked at the field, puncturing the lines of soldiers again and again like a needle biting cloth, trailing the bright thread of her cavalry behind her until the remaining forces were ground down against the shield wall of Highever’s defensive line. At first, they had resisted. Brutal pikes had been planted into the earth to form a bristling cocoon against a direct charge. Without suppressing fire from the archers, however, Highever had loosed its war dogs from the slips. The beasts had darted between the shafts, and in the chaos of their wake, Rosslyn’s cavalry had cut deep.

For the second time now Highever’s standard waved the flag of truce to offer terms, but from her vantage point Rosslyn saw the enemy’s line regrouping for one last suicidal assault.

“Have it your way, then,” she growled, and set her heels to Lasan’s sides.

The rest of the battle passed in minutes. With no foreign standard to claim, there could be no official declaration of victory, so the fighting sputtered into smaller, disorganised scuffles before dying out completely, a fire robbed of fuel. Leaving her officers to coordinate the search for any injured who might yet be saved, Rosslyn called her vanguard and cantered through the twilight towards the rise where Highever’s remaining infantry was waiting, overshadowed by the steep slopes of the mountain known as the Rothshead.

Lasan tossed his head with a snort when she tugged a little too sharply to check his speed. She forced her fingers to ease their grip on the reins. Ravens already gathered over the dead, swooping like demons through the gathering dusk in the corners of her vision, but her unease came from an altogether different source. The ranks of her father’s infantry parted before her; awed mutters followed her; ahead stood the imperious banner of Laurels on a blue field. Only when she dismounted did she realise how badly she was shaking, with a volatile combination of adrenaline and fatigue that took every ounce of her will to control.

Cuno was not helping. The dog all but threw himself on her as soon as her boots touched earth, wriggling and whistling for joy that she was alive, and reassuring her that despite his mask of blood and kaddis he was too and would very much like a scratch behind the ear, just to make sure. The fog clouding her mind lifted to reveal the reality of the carnage at her feet. She knelt down to wrap her dog in a fierce, one-armed hug, her eyes squeezed closed as her free hand clawed at the chinstrap that secured her helmet in place. When she finally got it off, her lungs sucked in deep, grateful breaths of cold air that brought tears to her eyes and a burn to her throat.

“It’s alright,” she whispered to him. “It’s alright, I’m here, I’m alive.”

A ripple of expectation circled through the waiting soldiers, torches were lit to ward off the night, and Rosslyn looked up unseeing towards the movement in the ranks directly ahead. Her noble upbringing reasserted itself, the need to appear in collected and in control at all times. She swallowed and stood, fists clenched, conscious of the unflattering streak of gore Cuno’s enthusiasm had painted across her cheek.

And from behind the wall of spears Bryce Cousland emerged, his movements the totter of a young foal, his armour no longer at parade shine but stained and crusted with dirt. A gash in his forehead caked blood down the left side of his face, giving an intensity to his expression that turned her father into a monstrous stranger. He stared at her without speaking.

“Hail to His Lordship, Teyrn of Highever,” she called out formally, with a respectful nod of her head. When the silence still pooled between them, thick as treacle, she felt her mouth edge into a nervous grimace. “Sorry I’m late.”

The silence shattered. In three resounding strides Bryce crossed the space between them and gathered her so tightly into his arms she felt the constriction even through the aurum plate of her cuirass.

“Oh, Pup. My darling girl.”

“Father…”

Rosslyn’s knees, relieved of the burden of supporting her weight, began to tremble in earnest as she leaned into the embrace, once more just a child seeking a parent’s warmth after a bad fright. In the unfamiliar dark with the stench of carrion all around, her father’s breath on her hair held comfort, his voice an anchor to the present moment though it was gruff and hoarse from the strain of battle. Even so, she was old enough now to discern the current of desperation that underlay his relief. With slinking precision, dread worked through the seams in her armour and turned her sweat cold.

“Where’s Fergus?” she asked.

Bryce pulled away, the clenched muscles in his jaw providing her with the answer he could not voice.

“When? What happened?” Perhaps if she had been faster, pushed her troopers harder –

“In the first engagement. I…” Bryce sagged, unable to meet her eye. “He couldn’t be reached.”

The onlooking soldiers dropped away; father and daughter stood aloof in the centre of the field, wrapped in the privacy of their grief. For Rosslyn, still rocked by the reality of battle, the loss of her brother existed only in her father’s stricken expression, and when she looked past him towards the rows of soldiers who stood attendance on them, she expected to see Fergus – a little battered, maybe, but without permanent damage – his eyes bright and his kind smile the same as it always was.

But he wasn’t there.

“No…”

The word startled Bryce from the scene that now replayed whenever he closed his eyes. He bunched his shoulders against it, once more shrugging into the mantle of leadership he wore so well.

“Listen to me, Pup,” he said. “There will be time to grieve, but it isn’t now. We’ve cut off the dragon’s wings, but the head is still out there somewhere, and its eyes still move. Right now, we have to decide what to do next.”

Blinking back the sting in her eyes, Rosslyn nodded. “We have wounded. And… I set some of my troopers to look through the – the dead. None of these people had any kind of insignia. Who are they?”

“I don’t know.” He sighed and stood taller. “We can tend the wounded in camp. Billets are being set up as we speak. In the morning we’ll regroup and work out the best course of action. In the meantime, I need you to tell me everything you know and everything you’ve seen on the road.”

“What about Arl Howe?” Rosslyn asked, following after him as he about-turned and marched for where the camp attendants had started pitching the tents. “The messenger you sent to Highever said you sent others to ask for his aid.”

“No word has come,” her father replied. “Either the messengers never made it, or something worse has happened.” He paused and turned to squeeze her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Pup, we’ll get to the bottom of it.”

Matters moved quickly after that. While Bryce’s adjutants handled the mundane aspects of setting the camp and assigning duties to the surviving soldiers, the Teyrn coordinated the hunt for those chased away by Rosslyn’s attack, and after his squires had stripped him of his outer layer of armour and given him towels to wash with, he retired to his tent with his daughter to plot the army’s next move. She proved alert and well-informed about the strength of their forces, offering astute insights with an eagerness that dimmed as the night wore on and exhaustion began to take its toll. A servant came in and deposited a loaf of bread and two bowls of stew just as a huge yawn caused her to sway against the table.

“Bedtime, I think,” Bryce commented. “Once you’ve eaten.” He handed her the slightly fuller bowl and the larger half of the bread once it had been torn over his knee. It was hard tack compared to the meals served at high table in the castle, but it was warm and would keep hunger at bay for half a day at least.

Rosslyn dug into the stew with only the thinnest veneer of decorum. “I haven’t had a bedtime since I was twelve. I’m not tired.”

“Don’t argue with me, girl,” her father replied, not unkindly. “You need your rest.”

“I still say splitting our force is a bad idea,” she told him between mouthfuls. “We routed them – whoever they were. If they had reinforcements surely it would be better to present them with a larger opponent to discourage attack. Why not dig in at Glenlough?”

“That might be a good idea if our casualty list weren’t so long and if Glenlough hadn’t been levelled. It offers us no defence now.” He rubbed a hand down the side of his face so that the last of the dried blood crumbled away; his meal lay untouched beside him. “No. The best course of action is to take an advance party back to Highever to prepare for the arrival of the wounded. The cavalry and the dogs will stay to act as an escort and follow on.”

“A lot of the injured can’t walk. Carts will need to be requisitioned from the villages nearby.”

Bryce hummed his agreement and finally scooped up his bowl, only to find the stew had gone tepid. “I’m sure you’ll be able to manage it.”

“What do you mean?” she asked. Her hand stilled with her spoon half way to her mouth as she realised. “You’re leaving me behind again!”

His fist slammed onto the table. “I am not.” His frown softened in apology for the outburst, but his voice retained its hard edge. “You will have your own command. Once the cavalry and the wounded infantry add up, I’m putting you in charge of the greater portion of our army, and I will be counting on you to see them safe, no matter what.” He sighed and ran a distracted hand through his hair. “There’s still a lot for you to learn about being a general, Pup, and one of those things is that sometimes, for the greater good, your own feelings must be set aside to get the job done. We are Couslands, and we do our duty above everything else.”

Cowed, Rosslyn, dropped her gaze. “I’m sorry, Father.”

“It’s alright,” he replied. “And now it really is time for you to sleep. Go on.”

He shooed her off with a wave towards the back of the tent, where a cot had been set up behind a partition to offer privacy. Having been on the road since before dawn that morning, even such a sparse bunk seemed a luxury, but Rosslyn hesitated nevertheless.

“I’m… not sure I can.”

In seconds, Bryce had crossed the tent, his soldiers’ reports forgotten where he dropped them. His padded gambeson squished as he folded his daughter into another tight hug, bringing to light a memory he had not thought about in years: rushing home from a campaign in the central Bannorn; taking the stairs to his keep two at a time, still in war-clothes, frantic with the news; his young wife’s maidservant, fiercely guarding her mistress’s rest, finally giving into his urgency by placing an impossibly tiny, swaddled bundle in his arms.

“I know,” he told his daughter now. “Try? For me?”

He guarded her as she nodded and staggered towards the bed, and helped gather the blankets around her shoulders like he had done during the fiercest winter storms of her childhood. Since that first time holding Fergus as an infant, he had watched his son grow to raise a family of his own, and then his pride as a father had been struck down before his eyes. It would not happen again. As Rosslyn’s breathing evened out and her muscles relaxed, he allowed himself to turn away, his mind already refocussing on the task at hand.

The attack on his troops might have been staged as a random event, but the wider events going on within Ferelden’s borders and the careful planning of the offensive itself suggested a deeper motive at work than simple greed for Glenlough’s wealth. Bryce’s instincts told him Highever was yet in danger, and that the worst of the fighting was yet to come. No doubt their hidden enemy’s plan had been to level the army completely and then to come upon Castle Cousland unchallenged – a plan that would have succeeded, had not Rosslyn come charging to his rescue.

He stared down at his maps once more. Her victory must not be wasted.

* * *

 

The following afternoon found Rosslyn preparing her own departure from the temporary camp. Even though Ser Gideon, the commander of her father’s house guard, had remained behind to assist her, she found it daunting to be the ultimate voice of authority. On the road to the battle, her own fears and training had driven her troopers forward, but now, planning to move a force comprised of so many parts was beginning to prove much harder than her schoolroom lessons had made it seem. She listened as her officers presented their final reports to her, nodding, glad they knew their business and that they had decided to trust the Teyrn’s orders to leave her in charge. As the army prepared to move out, however, she found her fingers worrying at the seal-ring her father had dropped into her palm when he said his farewells. It was too big to fit her properly, so she had donned her gauntlets to make sure it didn’t slip off and get lost, but she could feel it against her skin, heavy with the responsibility required of its owner.

“I’ll have it back off you when you get to Highever,” Bryce had warned her. “So mind you keep it safe.” He did not have to add that with Fergus gone, the official Cousland seal would one day be hers for real.

“Send the signal to the van,” she commanded, and watched the runner sprint to where the first of the carts laden with injured stood waiting to set off. They would set a slow pace, and the hours’ head start her father’s force had taken would lengthen far enough that no help would come if either group got into trouble on the road.

She turned to her horse and tried not to think about it, trusting her father’s judgement like she trusted the groom to hold the stirrup for her while she mounted. Tomorrow her company would meet the road, vehicles, cavalry, and dogs, and from there the journey would be quicker and easier, and this whole business could be put to rest. Lasan woke from his doze as she gathered the reins, answering her direction like any disciplined soldier. Behind her, the three-hundred strong cavalry waited for her orders, with Morrence at the forefront, promoted into Captain Tolly’s place.

“Ware rider!”

Heads turned as the scout galloped past the line to Rosslyn’s position under her banner. The horse’s eyes rolled wildly as he pulled back on the reins, the lather on its withers stark against its dark coat.

“I come to warn you my lady – a massive host on the road ahead!” The rider circled his horse when it refused to settle, waiting for her response.

Rosslyn felt all eyes turn to her. “Where? How far away?”

“More than a day, for now, but getting closer,” he replied. “Me and my partner, we saw them hunting for deserters from yesterday. He went after His Lordship, knowing that he planned to be ahead. I came to warn you.”

“Show me.”

The scout vaulted from his saddle, drawing a crumpled map from his satchel as he crossed the space to where Rosslyn waited. Lasan had picked up on the current of apprehension the scout’s arrival had stirred, and he fidgeted and watched the lad approach with a leery eye.

“The host is three thousand strong, by our estimate,” he said. “They carry no banner we recognised.”

“Mercenaries, then,” Rosslyn surmised. “Do they know we’re here?”

“I don’t know, my lady. They were marching at a fair lick along the road from Glenlough, so it may be they don’t see us as a threat.”

 _With good reason,_ she thought, lips pursed.

Three thousand able-bodied men. Had her father kept their army together, they might have made a match of it even with their crippled infantry, but alone, she had no chance of holding off a fresh stand of men with soldiers already shocked and tired from the previous day.

“Where is my father? Can he return here?”

The scout shook his head. “Not in time, my lady. This new force lies between us and him.”

Rosslyn forgot to breathe. Whichever option presented itself to her now mocked her with its consequences. To stay would be to wait for death; to meet this new foe head-on might spare her father some time to reach the safety of Highever, but at the likely cost of everyone under her command; to flee would be to doom the Teyrn and everyone with him.

It was what he had intended all along. She realised it like a punch to the stomach. The vanguard he had taken with him was nothing more than bait for whatever he had suspected was waiting beyond the ruins of Glenlough, his hurried departure that morning part of an act that would fool any enemy into thinking his were the last survivors retreating in disorder from the field of battle. And he hadn’t told her, because he had known she would have insisted against it. He had told her to protect her people, no matter the cost.

_No matter the cost._

“What are your orders, my lady?” asked Ser Gideon, the commander of her father’s house guard, his dark face set in stern lines.

“We…” She coughed past the lump forming in her throat, and tried again. “There are logging trails to the west, over Elethea’s Saddle. We’ll go that way and head for West Hill, and Bann Teagan’s encampment there.”

“If you do that, your father’s men will be left open to attack and the city will be vulnerable,” Gideon replied. “And that’s if these bastards don’t set upon our fleeing backs. Can we really afford to take such a chance?”

Startled looks passed between her officers at his daring.

“I was charged with keeping these soldiers safe,” Rosslyn snapped at him. “Highever is no longer safe.” Sighing, she softened her glare and looked past the Guard-Commander, to the rest of the officers counting on her leadership. Some were seasoned men – grizzled veterans she had known all her life – but most were her own, who had not known war until she dragged them into it.

“I trust you to carry out my orders, Gideon,” she said, more calmly. “As I expect you to trust me. We make for West Hill. Let the men know that this isn’t just a leisurely stroll home anymore. The Teyrn of Highever wanted us to live to fight another day, and I intend to use every extra second he can spare us.”

In minutes their train was underway, moving away from the road and up along a muddy track deeper into the hills with the resignation that only comes to those who know they will have a long way to go and no opportunity to turn back. The cavalry was split into three rotating units to act as guards along the length of the march, the idea being that those in front could stop to rest their horses and allow themselves to be overtaken before joining the rear. Every soldier able to walk had been given their weapons, and those not insensate had been told to keep an eye out for suspicious movement, just in case.

As she watched the column trail past her, Rosslyn twisted around in her saddle for one last look north. Her heart thudded in her chest as if it wanted to break out of its cage and fly towards the home she feared she might never see again, but she squashed the urge and settled instead for a prayer of hope. _Please, Maker, keep them safe_. Then, squeezing her eyes closed, she set her jaw and urged her horse onwards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sombre note to end the chapter on, I know. There's not much in the way of notes for this chapter, except to say I really enjoy working out the details of battle scenes, and if anyone wants to improve theirs, go and find episodes of Time Commanders on YouTube, because it's a really good show for explaining tactics and showing where and how things can go wrong.
> 
> But I'm also really excited, because next chapter is the one where Alistair and Rosslyn (finally) meet! I'm planning to put it up in the beginning of November to coincide with Alistair Appreciation Week over on tumblr.
> 
> Stay tuned :)


	8. I: The Falcon Meets The Rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After hours of waiting, the last of Highever's forces finally make it to Bann Teagan's camp. But this doesn't set Alistair's fears to rest for long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised an Alistair and here is an Alistair, meeting Rosslyn for the first time. It's gonna be the start of something beautiful, chaps ;)
> 
> This chapter was meant to go up on AU day of Alistair Appreciation Week over on tumblr, but I procrastinated. And life is distracting me somewhat since I recently took up exercise again. And other reasons, but I won't get into those.
> 
> Chapter content warning: Gore, surgery, wounds

_Seventh day of Guardian, 9:32 Dragon_

The camp hidden on the edge of the Marl Plain was quiet, awaiting orders, hidden from its target by the skirt of a low hill. The restlessness of earlier hours had subsided with the last treasonous gasps of those hanged for insubordination and incitement to mutiny. They had been the most vocal in their dissent at the plan to take Highever, but the example made of them had stopped any greater action by the others. As Captain Lowan strode through the rows of low tents towards the horse pickets, he saw resignation in the faces of those huddled around their campfires, and was satisfied. Men more terrified of their commander than the enemy were easily led, and far more easily controlled.

Something nagged at his well-ordered mind, however. As Arl Howe’s right-hand, he wielded more power than most, but his lord had waited long years plotting this campaign and what he would do when he finally had the Couslands in his grasp, and on this subject he was like a terrier with a rat in its teeth. He was deaf to any caution that the man they had plucked still breathing from a knot of Highever dead might be a threat to the plan, refusing to listen even after their prisoner had been caught attempting to escape and warn the castle.

_Damned nobles and their damned hubris._

He turned a corner and almost walked smack into the conscript set to guard the makeshift gaol where the prisoner had been moved.

“Captain!” The sentry jerked crisply to attention, fear lancing though his expression. “What’re you doin’ here?”

Lowan nodded towards the darkness in the cell. “Is he awake?”

“Hard’a tell, Ser.” The sentry stamped his boots to try and scare some warmth back into his feet, relieved that he hadn’t been singled out for a reprimand. “He in’t moved, mind, and he in’t gannin’ naawhere, not on them legs.”

The captain levelled a cold glare at such lax discipline. In the early morning gloom, the stark light of the cell’s single lamp cast harsh shadows over the planes of his face, deepening the orbits of his eyes and carving the depression of his mouth into a grin like a skull’s. With nervous eyes, the sentry traced the grizzly line of the scar that cut a chasm up his superior’s left cheek and across his forehead.

“I mean, not that I haven’t been watching him, like,” he added hastily. “But, I mean, Ser, look at ‘im. He’s out coald.”

“You’d better hope so, soldier.”

“A-aye, Ser.”

With a measured grace that belied his age, Lowan crouched on his heels to better examine the prisoner, the first trophy of Arl Howe’s conquest. The man lay heaped on his right side on a dirty pile of straw, bound in thick chains under a scraggy blanket, his once-gleaming armour dented and soiled with filth that masked the sigil of the Laurels embossed across his chest. His dark hair and face, too, were streaked with gore, his features now all but unrecognisable under the swell of purple bruises. He did not move, not even when poked in the ribs with the iron toe-cap of Lowan’s boot.

To one less cautious, such a pitiful sight would be convincing, but Howe’s right-hand knew enough of Cousland pride to know that one heavy beating and two cracked femurs would not be enough to smother it. He reached for his belt and slid his dagger from its sheath.

The sentry licked his lips. “Orders were to keep ‘im alive, Ser.”

“Do not tell me my business,” Lowan snapped. He lowered the flat side of the blade to the prisoner’s mouth. For a moment, nothing happened, but then the faintest mist of condensation collected on the steel, and Lowan rose to his feet with a grunt. “He’s alive. Get him up. His lordship thinks this toff will do nicely for –”

“Captain Lowan, Ser!” A sergeant in patchy mail stumbled into the lamplight, panting. “I was told to find you here.”

Lowan glowered at the newcomer. “Report.”

“It’s the Red Iron, Ser – the mercs what went after the Cousland girl.” The sergeant gulped. “They’ve sent a message, Ser.”

“Ah, finally.” Lowan flexed his fingers on the pommel of his sword. “Are they bringing back her head, as they were told?”

“Ah, um, no, Ser.”

“They’ve taken her alive then? That’s a feat – Arl Howe will be pleased.”

“Uh, no Ser,” came the hesitant reply. “They – they’re not bringing her. She, er, got away.”

“I see.” Lowan’s grip tightened. “And the wounded from Glenlough?”

“Didn’t catch them,” the sergeant answered. “It seems she used what was left of the cavalry to harry our men and give hers more time to flee. They caught up yesterday morning, but she escaped again. They’ve, uh, broken off pursuit, Ser. The messenger says she reached Bann Teagan’s forces near Wythenshawe, and they’re not being paid enough for such odds. His words, Ser,” he added, noting the scowl darkening his superior’s expression.

For a moment, indecision coiled in Lowan’s limbs. His eyes flicked from side to side, his lips pursed as he worked out his next move. Employing the Red Iron had been his suggestion, a solution to Amaranthine’s pitiful number of professional soldiers, which had been meant as a shortcut for taking Highever… and they had failed to remove the youngest Cousland, a mere chit who should have been easy to kill. Having survived, she would return to her homeland bloodthirsty as only nobles could be, with the might of a new army and all the authority of the king behind her, implacable as an avalanche. Howe might escape, but those lower in the pecking order were never so lucky. _He_ wouldn’t be that lucky.

As if to undermine the downward turn of his thoughts, from somewhere nearby the first blackbird of morning began to sing. Time was marching on. Cursing inwardly, Lowan straightened and barked for the sergeant to help carry the prisoner while he marched ahead to where his lordship was making final preparations for the attack on Castle Cousland. If they could take the keep, then it wouldn’t matter what the girl did; she’d be free to break her armies against the walls and follow the rest of her family into the Maker’s grace.

He did not look back, so did not notice the smile that cracked across the prisoner’s face, as wide as his injuries would allow. _He_ would be able to do nothing but watch, crippled, as everything he loved was put to the sword, but for an instant exultation burned through the mire of his grief. Rosslyn lived. Even if nothing could save Highever now, he knew with certainty that it would not go unavenged.

* * *

 

By the time Alistair reached the eastern edges of the camp, the last of Lady Cousland’s retinue were already being tended, for which he was grateful. Horses were dotted throughout the clearing, heads drooped with their coats matted and stained from the road, most too tired for even a cautionary jerk as the healers all but dragged the troopers from their war saddles. Globes of blue-green light flickered here and there as the most serious injuries were treated with healing spells, and Alistair was glad to see that, at least in an emergency, the mages from Kinloch Hold were able to overcome their suspicion of the large, unpredictable animals.

 _Or not_. A furious series of barks drew his attention to a group of four or so young mages clustering like geese a wary distance away from an impressive roan charger that had been roused from its torpor. It pawed clods of muck from the earth, warning the strangers away with an uneasy roll of its eye. One of them seemed to have been on the receiving end of its teeth already.

As he came closer, Alistair noticed the rider, her skin pallid with sweat and expression pinched with fatigue, trying simultaneously to rein in the horse and keep the wounded soldier at her back from falling. An arrow had pierced her left shoulder, leaving the arm limp across the front arch of her saddle, but even under the sheen of blood and a tumble of loose black hair he could still make out the pattern of laurels embossed on her armour. This, then, was Lady Cousland herself.

“Cuno!” The word hissed through gritted teeth, followed by a garbled string of words in a language that might have been Clayne.

The dog, a pure-bred mabari judging by the deep chest and wide head, immediately turned his attention away from the ‘threatening’ mages towards his mistress, a high, worried whine beginning at the back of his throat. His head tilted back, trying to get a proper look at her, and when that didn’t work he crowded closer, heedless of the horse’s stamping, fretting when she failed to notice his yipped entreaties to dismount. Already agitated by the smell of blood and the lack of direction from its rider, the roan shifted its weight into its powerful haunches, though they trembled from exhaustion. It was still held in check, but only just, and that control was slipping.

“I’ve got you,” Alistair reassured her, dodging forward to catch hold of the bridle before the horse could bolt.

The lady’s gaze rolled over his without focus, her whole body listing as she searched instead for her dog to calm him down.

“Cuno…”

Even without the rasp of her laboured breathing or the sunken hollows of her eyes, it was easy to tell she was in a bad way. He had to get her down, or Teagan would kill him. He noticed the knotted leather that bound the arms of the second soldier around her waist, swollen with rain so that it would be impossible to untie.

“You two!” he snapped at the only mages who lacked the presence of mind to find easier patients.

“Ser?”

“Get over here and help me. I need you to hold the horse,” he instructed. “He’ll be quiet, just do as you’re told. As for you,” he added, turning to the second mage. “Surana, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Ser.”

“Get ready to catch him.” Alistair drew his knife, thankful that he had sharpened it that morning, and cut through the strap before helping to brace the unconscious man as the quivering elven mage hauled him to the ground, healing spells already sparking from his fingers.

Lady Cousland sagged as the weight dropped away from her. “Is he…?”

“He’s alive,” Surana answered.

Her eyes slid closed with a heavy sigh.

“Now for you, my lady.”

Alistair reached up, uncertain of the best way to help her without jostling her injury, but she waved away his hand and tipped forward, clearly intent on dismounting without assistance, despite the grimace it stretched across her face. Her years of training served her well, and she kept her balance, keeping the horse steady with murmured entreaties in the same language she had used on the dog, but as she touched the ground her right leg buckled and sent her backwards with a yell. He reacted instinctively, scooping his arms under her shoulders to take just enough of her weight to prevent her from sprawling. With a grunt, she turned in his arms. His shoulders acted as a brace so she could drag herself back onto her feet. When she looked at him, he caught the impression of high cheeks and a thin, straight nose, and fever-bright eyes the grey of cracked ice on the sea. He swallowed.

“My people, are they safe?” she demanded, her voice choked with strain.

“They’re being tended, my lady,” he replied, tentatively letting go of her. “Your other forces arrived a couple of hours ago, and are being settled in.”

She straightened, then doubled over again with a yelp as the movement pulled at the torn muscles in her shoulder. “I need – need to see Bann Teagan.”

“You need a healer.”

Setting his hand under her uninjured arm again, he glanced around for a mage not immediately engaged. Not far away, an older woman had just sent a pair of healers away bearing a stretcher between them, her hand to her forehead, seemingly unconscious of the fact that the ends of her white hair were matted with blood. He waved her over.

“No, th’others first,” Lady Cousland slurred, rousing as Alistair beckoned the mage over. “Have to get…”

His grip stiffened as she tried to twist away, ignoring the dog, who chuffed in warning but seemed hesitant to intervene. “How are you going to help your people if you run yourself into the ground?”

The words had their intended effect, though he had no doubt the impertinence in his tone would have been less well received if the lady had not lost quite so much blood. Winded and dizzy, her struggles faded as Wynne approached, but even though her legs trembled, she refused to bend her dignity by leaning on him. She watched blearily as the old woman checked her over, tutting first over her shoulder and then her right thigh, where a scabbed-over sword wound throbbed beneath a hastily applied, grubby bandage. Even the slightest press of Wynne’s fingers to examine the wound made the patient jerk away, snarling.

“Enough!” she snapped. Shivers wracked her body, but her expression had for the moment lost its dazed, absent look. “I will see Bann Teagan _now_. My father… is… He’s…” Sweat trickled down her forehead. Her right hand fumbled for purchase and found Alistair’s shoulder, her complaints subsiding into incoherent mumbles as he once again angled himself under her arm to better take the weight off her injured leg.

“So this is Bryce Cousland’s youngest,” Wynne commented dryly.

“Will she be alright?” It would be just his luck for the only daughter of one of the most powerful men in Ferelden to die under his care minutes after being rescued. Would they merely hang him, or would the grief-stricken Teyrn of Highever wish to draw out his execution? Maybe the dog would get there before anyone else had a chance, and simply maul him to death.

“Yes,” came the measured reply. “But these wounds require more attention than simple spells, and it’s a miracle the blood poisoning hasn’t overtaken her already. I’ll need light, and heat, and somewhere to lie her down.”

“Teagan’s pavilion is closest.”

“I’ll get my equipment.”

The mage turned with a swish of long robes and headed for the sloping marquee that served as the infirmary, leaving Alistair to heft the semiconscious noblewoman into a more comfortable position.

“Can you walk, my lady?” he asked. She was almost as tall as him, strongly built, and still girded to the neck in layers of aurum plate – even having discarded her undercoat of mail it would be a bugger to have to carry her.

“Yes,” she replied, as though the question was offensive. When she staggered, her head lolled back against his shoulder and she flashed him a tiny, derisive grin. “Ugh, mostly.”

Unable to entirely control his hysteria, Alistair chuckled. “That’ll do. Come on, easy does it.”

Tightening his grip on her waist to keep her from slipping, he helped her limp the slow path towards the officers’ quarters. When a sharp curse drew through her teeth he paused, nerves jumping, worried he had knocked her, but it was only Cuno, the mabari, who had responded to the whisper of his name by bumping his muzzle into the palm of her hand with a brief lick for reassurance. Care softened the pained lines around her eyes, and for the next few laboured steps she muttered blandishments at the dog, until her words grew more disjointed and then faltered completely. Concerned, Alistair edged a glance at her out of the corner of his eye, and was surprised by the degree of relief he felt to see she was still awake, even if the muscles in her jaw were clenched hard enough to grind stone. Less welcome was the crushing pinch of her fingers into the back of his neck as she fought to keep her balance.

Wynne preceded them into Bann Teagan’s tent with the elven healer, Surana, following closely on her heels and carrying a surgeon’s bag that had seen a lot of use in recent weeks. He tried not to think about that as he followed the mage’s direction to set Lady Cousland on the edge of the cot, easing her down slowly enough to keep her bad leg straight. Surana came forward with a goblet filled with some dark green, viscous liquid. She scowled at the taste when urged to drink, but complied, until she lurched sideways and violently retched it all back up again.

“No, don’t try to give her any more, what are you thinking!” Wynne chastised. “She’ll just have to deal with the pain, Andraste help her. The armour needs to come off,” she added to Alistair as she took a rolled leather pouch from her bag. It contained a range of metal tools that gleamed viciously in the torchlight.

“What?” Alistair glanced down at the swaying noblewoman, the tips of his ears reddening. “I can’t do that! It would be – I mean…”

“Maker’s breath, young man, you’re hardly a voyeur,” the old woman snapped. “And would it be more or less chivalrous of you to leave her helpless like this, hm? That’s what I thought,” she added, when he cursed and dragged a hand through his hair.

Having dimly followed their exchange, Lady Cousland’s hand drifted to the buckles that held her cuirass in place, but found her fingers too clumsy to grasp at the leather straps. Alistair shook his head and kneeled to help, but quickly noticed another problem – the arrow in her shoulder had punched through pauldron and cuirass both and pinned it to her flesh.

“This is going to have to come out first,” he warned her, trying to work out the best angle from which to draw it. It must have been shot from a crossbow to have impacted with such force. Surana heard and bustled over with a wad of hard leather that he set between her teeth.

“Are you ready?”

She stiffened when he shifted her hair out of the way and braced a hand against her back, but nodded. The dog shuffled closer and laid his head in his mistress’s lap, offering an uneasy wag of his tail as she stroked his ears. Before he could change his mind or let her think about it too much, Alistair gripped the shaft and _pulled_.

The bolt came free with a wet ripping noise he heard even over the lady’s muffled cry and the dog’s frantic growls. It transfixed him. The dull iron was slicked with the same blood that spurted over his hands, its barbed point designed with an unnecessary cruelty that was sickening.

“Is this really the time to gawk?” Wynne demanded.

Surana had already taken over the removal of the lady’s armour, working quickly to access the wound before her blood loss became critical. But he had little experience with such complicated layers, and wasted more time than he saved trying to work out which strap to undo next. Losing patience, Alistair pushed him out of the way and stripped off cuirass, vambraces, and padded gambeson in quick succession, his embarrassment entirely overlooked in the face of the scarlet stain blooming across the noblewoman’s linen undershirt.

She had doubled over, fingers tangled in her dog’s ruff and head pressed tightly against his neck. Her breath came in uneven, shaking gasps, but it quietened when cool green magic met her fevered skin and began to knit her muscles back together.

“You’re alright,” Wynne soothed. “There’s a brave girl. There’s no lasting harm done – you’ll be right as rain soon enough.”

Before Alistair’s eyes the ugly gash shrank, the pale glisten of bone disappeared, and the ragged skin around the edges smoothed until all that was left was a livid, uneven starburst of scar tissue. He had no doubts that if not for Wynne’s skill with healing magic, the injury would have permanently limited the use of Lady Cousland’s left arm. Even arcane knowledge wouldn’t be enough to completely heal it, and already Wynne had swapped her spells for a pot of elfroot salve, which she smeared liberally over the closed wound before withdrawing to allow Surana to bandage the shoulder tightly enough to keep the newly-formed muscle from splitting. Time would do the rest.

“Well, this has been a fun way to spend an evening,” Alistair breathed, giddy. His hands were still stained with blood, which darkened and turned sticky as it dried. “And here I was planning to do some light reading with a glass of wine.”

“Don’t leave yet, Ser,” Wynne warned him. “I still need you to help hold her down.”

He frowned. “For what?”

“Her leg.” She guided Lady Cousland to lie flat with gentle presses of her hands. “It’s festered, so it will need to be cleaned before I can heal it.”

“I see.”

Surana busied himself setting out his mentor’s instruments as she began to unwind the bandage. Even that caused the lady to flinch, her eyes whirling beneath contracted lids as she whimpered and clutched the sheet beneath her. The sound distressed the dog, who pushed in close and huffed, but was sent away with a snapped command. Something about the calm, disinterested movements of the mages – the way Wynne sliced through the seam of Lady Cousland’s trouser leg to expose the infection – brought bile to the back of Alistair’s throat, as if to them the warrior lying at death’s door before them presented nothing more than an academic exercise, a puzzle to be solved –

“Please,” Wynne urged him. “She needs you.”

The sight of the wound decided him: swollen red, the skin stretched to a shine with pus under a crusted yellow scab.

“Right – right.” He stepped closer and dropped to his knees, setting his palms on the lady’s shoulders so that his body blocked her sight of Wynne heating the blade of a sharp silverite dagger over the fire. Her head turned at his touch. Sweat glistened on her forehead.

“Surana, are you ready?”

The young mage shuffled forward. Lady Cousland tracked the movement until she realised what was happening and dropped her head back against the pillow, eyes turning from Alistair to fix straight upwards, biting down on the leather strap she had been given. Still, she was unprepared when Wynne lifted the knife from the fire and slashed open the wound.

She jerked upward. She screamed, though she tried not to. She fought, tears streaming down her cheeks. The screams turned to sobs, and then to gasps as her consciousness ebbed away and her struggles weakened, allowing Wynne to set a healing spell against the flesh, and in minutes the battle was over. Both Alistair and Surana were exhausted from trying to keep Lady Cousland pinned down, their ears ringing as they tried not to gag on the sour odour of bile and blood that underlay the tang of white-spirit and elfroot. Their patient lay limp on the cot, barely conscious and sheened with sweat. Only Wynne retained her composure, practiced enough in her art that, at least on the surface, the grisly ordeal had no effect.

Alistair turned away from the sight, uneasy. Before he could fully process his motivations, he found himself sweeping aside a lock of dark hair stuck to the lady’s forehead.

“Unh…”

“It’s over now,” he told her gently. “You can sleep.”

Her eyes opened, searched for him. “You… You’re Bann Teagan’s man?”

“His right-hand. My name’s Alistair.”

She hummed, frowning as if committing his name to memory. “ _Alistair_ … ‘m Rosslyn.”

Across the other side of the tent, Wynne was already discussing her patient’s care with Teagan, who had arrived following the sound of screams. With a last final check to make sure she – _Rosslyn_ – was asleep, Alistair pushed himself away from the cot just in time to hear the mage’s instructions to keep her warm and quiet.

“And someone will need to watch her,” she added. “I haven’t put her under a Sleep just in case she takes a turn, but I feel the worst of it is over now, and Surana and I are needed elsewhere. When she wakes she’ll need food and plenty of water.”

“That’s a tall order,” Teagan answered with a ghost of a chuckle. “What do you say, Alistair, are you up to it?”

“Me? I mean, yes Ser, if I can help, I’d be glad to.”

His uncle clasped a hand to his shoulder. “Good man. Can I see her?” he asked, turning back to Wynne.

“She’s asleep.”

If Teagan was surprised by Alistair’s interruption, he didn’t show it. “Then I’d best leave it – if she’s anything like either of her parents, she won’t be kept down for long. Come find me in the morning, and _don’t_ let her bully you just because she’s pretty,” he warned, with a good-natured clap on the back. “After you, madam enchanter.”

Alistair watched the pair if them leave, his head sagging. It took a moment, but he gathered himself and ordered Surana to stay put while he went in search of someone among the kitchen staff who might still be awake. If he was to be in charge of Lady Cousland’s recovery, he would do it right – if only so that nobody could say otherwise if everything went pear-shaped and he ended up on the execution block after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much in the way of notes this time (except that Alistair's face is bloody hard to draw), but let me know if you liked it!


	9. I: The Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after the night before: Rosslyn wakes, and formal introductions are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big shout-out to Aelorha, who has been so supportive and wonderful - you've kept me looking forward to writing every day.

__

_Eighth day of Guardian, 9:32 Dragon_

When Rosslyn awoke the morning following her arrival at the camp, only Cuno’s stolid, doggy snores kept her panic at bay. The blank canvas above her might have belonged to anyone. Had she been taken captive? Would she have the strength to fight her way out? She had been on the road, chased, wounded, praying her enemy would not find her, and then everything had gone dark. Arms had pinned her down, then someone had healed her wounds – the mage, yes, in Teagan’s pavilion – and then, perhaps, a tender hand had brushed across her forehead, though that might have been a dream. She turned her head and met the sight of Rainesfere’s standard, a tower beneath three black stars, and found herself somewhat comforted, but no less confused.

Distant, shadowy images flitted in her mind’s eye; memories, she supposed, of the people who had tended her during the night as her body battled the residual trauma of her madcap flight from Glenlough, those who had bound her left arm in a sling and dressed her in fresh linen, and then draped pelts around her shoulders to keep out the winter chill. Now that her fever had burnt out, the extra layers chafed against her dry skin. As the last dregs of sleep left her, she became aware of the heat prickling behind her eyes and the way her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth – and that the reason for the numbness in her right arm was the dog flopped across her torso.

Pain arced outwards from her injured shoulder when she tried to move out from under him. Cuno awoke at the whimper drawn from her lips, his nose twitching, head cocked, ready to spring at whatever foe had dared come too near. When nothing presented itself, however, he relaxed and refocussed his attention, and noticed for the first time that his mistress, though still limp and pale, was conscious. His stubby tail began to wag, cautiously at first, but gaining enough momentum to make his whole body wiggle as he shuffled close enough to snuggle under her jaw and tell her with licks and frantic love-nibbles how glad he was to see her awake.

She smiled and let her head fall back against the pillows. “Good boy,” she croaked. “Did you miss me?”

The only reply was a cold, wet nose pushed into her neck and an insistent whine when her numbed arm failed to respond quickly enough to his plea for cuddles. Giving in to the demand, she allowed herself to doze as she fondled her dog’s ears, using the early morning silence to piece together more details of the previous night. But even as her mind drifted, her body decided on wakefulness, until eventually, along with her aches from the previous day’s hard riding and the tingle of healing magic still in her veins, she became aware of a growing need to find a latrine.

Cuno hovered anxiously as she eased upright, her head already spinning with the effort and her heart protesting her previous day’s blood loss with shallow, fluttering beats. Still, it beat, and in the meantime her bladder would not be ignored, and it was beneath her dignity to wet the bed, so she did her best to orientate her limbs so that she could stand.

A muffled grunt caught her attention. Propped in a chair next to her cot, his long legs stretched out from beneath the too-small blanket tucked under his chin, was the young man – _Alistair?_ – who had met her party in the clearing and had helped tend her wounds. He slept soundly, but judging by the waxy, sunken look of his eyes, it was not a state he had enjoyed for long. She decided to leave him be.

Shushing the dog, she gripped the frame of the cot, steeled herself, and pushed upwards, careful to keep most of her weight off her right leg. As soon as she wobbled, Cuno slipped under her fingers to offer his bulk as a crutch, but the world soon righted itself and she was pleased to find that, aside from the light-headedness, most of her body’s complaints were the result of fatigue rather than injury. Even the short walk to the chamber pot loosened her muscles, and if they screamed blue murder at her, at least they worked.

With her needs taken care of, Rosslyn ambled towards the tent entrance. Outside, the first light of dawn stained the eastern sky through the trees, echoing the glow of the braziers set around the camp, and glinting off the weapons of soldiers already going about their daily business. Dew dusted the grass, but proximity to the sea had kept the night too warm for frost. She sighed and leaned against the doorpost to keep her injured leg from trembling. How many of her people had made it here before her? How many of her retinue had survived the long road through the willow grove? And Highever…

A breeze stirred the loose fabric of her shirt, stealing away the last dregs of warmth from her skin as it curled past her into the tent and startled a grunt from her slumbering guardian.

“I’m awake, I’m –” His eyes widened and darted to the door when he realised the cot in front of him was unoccupied. “Hey, no, you’re not supposed to be over there!”

He was at Rosslyn’s side in an instant, the blanket he had wrapped himself in still tangled in sleep-clumsy limbs, the tips of his ears flushing with embarrassment for his dishevelled state. Under her amused scrutiny, he smoothed down his tawny hair and straightened his rumpled clothes, which were well tailored and serviceable, if not cut from the most expensive materials. They suited his tall frame, however, which spoke for his taste, and the economy with which he moved revealed his skill as a warrior. She guessed he must be about her own age, or perhaps a couple of years older.

“Is that how you always speak to unfamiliar people, or is it just too early in the morning?” she asked him, the acerbic nature of her words undercut by the mild tilt of her head.

“Forgive me, my lady,” he answered. “I – are you cold? Here –” Careful not to touch her or bump her arm, he shook the blanket free of wrinkles and slung it around her. The movement brought him into the morning light and close enough to show her details she had missed before. A night’s growth of beard traced a grainy shadow against his skin, accentuating the strong line of his jaw and eyes the burnished gold of oak leaves in autumn. They matched the hue of the freckles peppered across his cheeks, which were themselves only a few shades darker than the golden tint of his skin.

“Thank you.” She turned her attention to the arrangement of the thick woollen cloth around her shoulders, so as not to be accused of staring. The weave felt coarse against her cheek but it was warm and held a sharp-sweet musk – like pinesmoke, but not quite, and not displeasing in the least. “For what you did last night as well,” she added, fighting off another wave of dizziness. “I remember being somewhat… forceful.”

“Oh, think nothing of it, my lady,” Alistair answered with an embarrassed chuckle. “It’s what I’m here for, really – heavy lifting and delivering witty one-liners at inappropriate moments.”

“I’ll remember that.” Her smile faded. “Now, I would like you to take me to Bann Teagan.”

“ _Now_ , now?” he checked, disconcerted by the wobbly step she took away from the shelter of the tent. “Are you sure you don’t want some food first? Wynne made it quite clear –”

She interrupted him. “Time is of the essence – Highever is unsecured.”

When he didn’t follow, she turned back, drawing up to her full, overbearing height, ready to demand the respect due to her position, until she caught sight of the anxious knot in his brows and the downward quirk of his mouth. He had most likely been ordered to make her eat something, despite the fact that he held no power to do so, and was now wondering how best to proceed. She had seen the table opposite the cot laden with untouched food, of course, but had pushed away the thought of eating because there were matters of greater concern to her than one skipped meal. Her father had made her promise to keep her people safe, after all – duty and honour bound her to that promise, never mind that it had been the last thing he said to her.

She frowned. To admit to hunger would be to admit the extent of her exhaustion to a complete stranger, which would be unacceptable. And yet, if she insisted, he might let her go and be punished for it later; he could force her to stay, but it would be a desperate or dishonourable man that would attempt to manhandle an injured noblewoman, and to cause such a confrontation would be unreasonable. Still undecided, Rosslyn shared a glance with Cuno, who returned it with wise, liquid eyes and hopefully licked his chops.

Her shoulders slumped. “One day, I’ll be immune to that look,” she muttered, before turning to Alistair and offering him a polite nod of her head. “If everything is in hand, the taking of one meal will not make much difference to our departure,” she told him formally. “Though I will need to speak to my commander, Ser Gideon, as soon as possible.”

With as much grace as she could muster on her complaining legs, she swept past him as if breakfast had been her idea in the first place.

The spread laid out for her was truly impressive, given their location and the fact that the camp was an army on the march. From a distance, with the first flush of waking, Rosslyn had been able to ignore the display, but as she sank down into an adjacent chair, the aroma of cold meats, bread, eggs, cheese, and fruit enveloped her and drove even concern for her father temporarily out of her head. Since leaving Glenlough, she hadn’t eaten even half of a proper meal, having instead snatched mouthfuls of dried meat and biscuits on the road to ward away abject starvation. Now, she didn’t know where to start.

“Here, my lady,” Alistair said, pouring a measure of liquid into a horn cup and handing it to her. “Wynne said you should drink.”

“You aren’t going to join me?”

Alistair halted mid-step, surprised to be addressed. He had assumed that now that she was awake with her needs met, the lofty teyrn’s daughter would want him gone – and he certainly hadn’t anticipated the twinge of disappointment in her voice.

“That’s very generous, my lady,” he mumbled. “But I’m not sure if that would be entirely appropriate…”

“Less appropriate than watching a strange woman while she’s sleeping?” she shot back. The corners of her eyes crinkled in amusement at the way his eyes widened. “There’s more than enough food here for two people, and it would only go to waste otherwise. You were part of Bann Teagan’s campaign in Edgehall and Gherlen’s Pass, weren’t you? Perhaps you could tell me some of it.”

“Believe me, my lady, it wasn’t halfway as exciting as the official reports make it sound.”

“I haven’t seen the official reports, not since the castle got news of Ridderby. If you hadn’t told me that, you might’ve made up anything and I would have believed you.”

“Uh…”

She huffed, setting aside her charm. “It is my wish that you sit and have breakfast with me.”

Alistair’s jaw ticked. Although mellowed, the authority in her tone held a warning he had known well as a child, one he seemed doomed never to escape. “Very well, my lady.” He cleared his throat. “But just so you know, in case someone tries to smear my good name later, I don’t make a habit of watching women sleep.”

Her lips pulled into a lopsided smirk. “I’m glad to hear it.”

After that, conversation between them sputtered like an old candle. At first, food served as their excuse, but once the first bite of hunger was assuaged, Rosslyn once again found herself playing with the unfamiliar weight of her father’s seal ring, her appetite gone. Alistair, peeking at her from behind his water cup, noticed the twitch and hoped his uncle would arrive soon to take charge of the situation. After all, what did a common soldier know about comforting noblewomen?

A sharp, wet crunch shook them both from their thoughts. Cuno lay on the rushes between them, completely at ease with the world as he systematically demolished the beef joint wrapped between his paws.

“He refused to eat anything during the night, you know,” Alistair ventured.

“Oh, don’t mistake it for loyalty.” She tore her gaze from her dog and snickered, too heartily. “He’s trained to only take food from me or Master Darion, but he’d sell me out for a rump steak and a belly rub if he thought he could get away with it. Wouldn’t you, dog?”

The dog in question wiggled his tail but carried on gnawing at his breakfast.

“See?”

She turned back to the table too quickly to notice that Alistair didn’t return her smile, or that he kept sneaking glances at her. Her skin was beginning to lose the ashen pallor that had preoccupied him for most of the night, but though the silver in her eyes seemed brighter, it was overshadowed by the worry pulling at her brows. He licked his lips, unsure how to proceed, but was saved the inevitable embarrassment of a conversation because Wynne arrived, her face puckered in a scowl.

“I thought I told you she was meant to have bed rest?” she snapped at him, without even a word of greeting.

“She did! The whole night! I was watching – only, I wasn’t _watching_ , watching,” he added, catching the lady’s grin and feeling the tips of his ears burn.

“From what I hear, your charge was halfway down the road before you caught up to her.”

Rosslyn frowned. “Don’t you think complaints about my behaviour ought to be directed at me?” she asked coolly. “After introductions, of course. Ser Alistair has spent the night tending to me with very little rest for himself, and has since been kind enough to keep me company even though I’m sure he has pressing duties elsewhere.” With only the slightest tremble, she rose from her seat and stood before the mage, a model of serene authority. “Such diligence deserves praise, rather than censure.”

“That’s my name…”

“Lady Cousland, I –” Wynne dipped into a reluctant curtsey. Her lips pursed as she chewed on her words. “I am glad you’re feeling better, of course. I… apologise for how I spoke. I tend to get rather protective where my patients are concerned.”

“And no doubt that’s why I woke up here this morning and not by the Maker’s side.” The lopsided smirk appeared. “I was lucky to have the help of such a talented healer. If only a hot bath were so easy to come by in such a place as this.”

Wynne laughed – actually laughed – and just like that, ruffled feathers were smoothed on both sides, and the tension that had been building within the fragile confines of the tent evaporated like a puddle by a fire. Even Cuno left off his bone to give the newcomer a cursory sniff, and when Wynne absently scritched between his eyes, Rosslyn’s smile broadened in genuine welcome.

Alistair, however, soon found himself deposited outside, where the cold morning air stung his cheeks and seeped through the seams in his clothes. The sun had disappeared behind a wall of grey cloud and left only the promise of snow behind, but the mist had thinned enough that he could see the tents that had been set up for the wounded, clustered in a whorl around the infirmary.

He paused to consider. It would take time for Wynne to assess her patient’s wounds, by which time Teagan should have shown himself, and after that both he and Rosslyn would most likely bury themselves in maps and battle plans, as nobles tended to do. He himself would not be missed. It would be the perfect time to quietly slip away to go and attend to his regular duties, so that everything was in order for their inevitable trek north.

A walk would also give him the perfect excuse to shake out the bewilderment that seemed to have gripped his limbs. Even in so short a time, his expectations of what Rosslyn Cousland would be had been completely turned upside down. The night before she had been gaunt and contemptuous – until she passed out – and that fit with his previous, limited experience of the nobility beyond his uncle. Over breakfast, however, she had joked with him, she had defended him, and most surprising of all, _she had remembered his name_.

He shook his head to clear the thought, and went to find the quartermaster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Feel free to ignore)  
> I'm taking a few liberties with the game mechanics in regards to magical healing and what it can do, both because it makes things more dramatic, and because bodies are complicated. It makes sense for mage healers to augment their magic with herb lore and knowledge of anatomy.
> 
> Also, my dog would probably also sell me out for a steak and a belly rub.


	10. I: An Ember in the Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still recovering, Rosslyn and Teagan lead the army to Highever, only to find the enemy has gotten there first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A warning for heavy angst in this chapter: gore and canonical character death

_Ninth Day of Guardian, 9:32 Dragon_

The city smouldered.

Before dawn that morning, the diminished army of Highever had set out under the proud gaze of Lady Cousland herself. They went to repay the loss at Glenlough, expecting to relieve a siege or sweep down upon their unknown enemy like before to win their glory. There had been jokes, and marching songs to keep time as they climbed the long slope of Harrowhill.

And now they stood between the two stone circles that flanked the crest of the hill, struck to silence with shock. The rain dripped down, soaking through metal and leather and cloth, unheeded as the wind lifted the veil of cloud to reveal the blackened husk of Highever huddling beyond the Marl Plain, with the river twisting through it like a strike of silver wire. A few ships still listed in the harbour, belching out thick dark smoke from broken hulls, but there was no sign of people, or of a battle before the walls of Castle Cousland, which still stood, unperturbed by the destruction that lay at its feet.

“This isn’t right…”

Rosslyn’s wounds ached. She still felt weak, and her knees were shaking so badly she doubted she would be able to mount Lasan again without help, but that concern was faraway. At her back, she felt the restlessness of her people as shock ebbed into anger – from Hobbs, who had been a wheelwright; from Morrence, whose father had been so proud of his tailor shop on Thistle Street – but it blurred, because all she could do was stare at the castle and the out-of-place banners draped over the battlements. Her home, and her family’s colours nowhere to be seen.

“How did this happen, Gideon?” she asked when the guard-commander shifted his weight next to her. “Where is my father?”

“I don’t know, my lady.”

She turned at the growl in his voice, remembering how he had begged her to go after the teyrn and his men. “Are you going to say I told you so?”

Gideon blinked in surprise. “No, lass,” he said quietly. “No, I won’t do that.”

She nodded, numb. On her other side, Teagan stood holding a bronze spyglass to his eye. With every beat that passed, the corner of his mouth pulled lower.

“My lord?”

Teagan hesitated, glancing to her outstretched hand. “It might be best if you didn’t, my lady. You don’t need to see this.” His eyes were bright with sympathy, even more so than his voice, and she recognised it as the same desire to protect that her father had left with her at Glenlough, the last time she had seen him.

Her jaw clenched. “Give it to me.”

Reluctantly he passed the spyglass to her, but even despite her burning need to see what had become of her home, she wavered as she brought it up to see. She glossed over the corpse of the city, with its snapped timbers and piles of smouldering rubble, needing to be sure instead that the quartered orange-and white banners weren’t just a trick of light and distance. She knew the shield well – the Bear of Amaranthine was a common sight enough since the Howes were neighbours and old friends – but to see those colours in place of the Laurels…

Rain dripped cold down her spine. There had to be something, anything, a tiny piece of evidence to tell her this was nothing more than a nightmare. But as she scanned along the walls, she found nothing to indicate a battle, not the scar of magefire on the stone nor cracked mortar on the battlements, only banner after banner snarling with the Howe Bear, her own family’s presence entirely erased, swept away like smoke. The image wobbled as her hands shook.

And then she saw the two bodies hanging from the arch of the barbican by thick, dark ropes – no, not ropes. Twisted cords made from rich blue cloth and fastened into nooses. The sound of the wind on the hill died away under the ragged pull of air through her teeth, the hollow thunder of blood in her ears, the creak of her leather gauntlets. The spyglass pressed hard enough against her skin to be bruising.

Gilmore. Canavan. She recognised his red hair. They must have been loyal to the last to have suffered such humiliation, for now they were nothing more than squabble-fodder for the crows, stripped of armour and honour with their beaten flesh greying and bloated where it wasn’t cut to the bone. Had they fought so hard expecting her to come? Had they looked to the horizon with hope even as Amaranthine’s forces overwhelmed the castle and cut them down?

Rage surged through the roaring disbelief in her ears. At Glenlough, her father had said no word had come from Howe, and now she knew why. _He_ had done this. He had planned and schemed and betrayed and destroyed and entire city, for – what? Greed? Jealousy? She almost tore the eyepiece away, but then movement fluttered at the edge of the lens and drew her gaze to a smaller commotion over the castle’s west gate. Crows and gulls flocked on the battlements, though the distance and the mist left them nothing more than whirling black and white flies; the two objects they circled were small and round, pale, propped up on long poles against the weather and the depredations of the birds –

Rosslyn’s hand clapped over her mouth. Bile that churned in her stomach, clawing to be up her throat. The spyglass clattered to the ground and cracked against a rock. She wanted to run. She wanted to fold against the earth and turn her face into the rain so it could wash away the image of what she had seen. _Too late too late too late_ , her heart mocked in its two-step dance. _You ran away and now this is what you have done._

A hand closed over her own, its warmth making her flinch.

“I’m sorry,” Teagan said. He had picked up the spyglass. “I can’t make this any easier.”

“I didn’t…” She stared at him blindly. “This wasn’t…”

“’Ware, riders!”

A flurry of movement. She saw Alistair a little way away put his hand to his sword and step between her and the shout, even as her soldiers formed a shield wall and behind them Teagan’s archers knocked arrows, waiting for the order to loose.

It was just a scout. He waved Rainesfere colours as he trotted towards them on a rangy little pony, and the order was given to stand down. Rosslyn straightened, her lessons as a noble’s daughter dragging her out of her haze, though her ears still rang and beneath her armour her skin felt clammy and feverish. Alistair relaxed, though she noticed his sword stayed loose in its scabbard as he went forward to meet the scout and find out what was going on.

They conferred. Behind the scout came three others mounted on horseback, leading a group of a dozen or so bound men whose surcoats were emblazoned with the snarling Amaranthine Bear. It filled Rosslyn’s vision, leering at her as if in mockery, but the soldiers who wore it all looked exhausted and battle-stained; their gear was patchy and singed, and none dared lift their gaze above their cracked, mud-caked boots. After a few moments, Alistair shrugged and led the scout towards the waiting officers.

 “Cam, isn’t it?” Teagan asked as the scout bowed.

“Yes, my lord.” A wisp of corn-yellow hair slipped from its place behind his pointed ears.

“Tell us what happened.”

The scout raised his head to speak, but started at the sight of the Laurels embossed on Rosslyn’s cuirass. “You’re her,” he whispered. “I mean, um, Lady Cousland, it’s an honour to meet you, I –”

She cut him off. “I don’t need flattery. What happened here? All these people…” She swallowed. “The castle. How was it taken?”

Cam struggled to meet her gaze, glancing at Teagan for reassurance before he worked up the courage to begin. “My lady, we didn’t arrive in time to watch events here unfold. My partners and I came from the east, following the ravens from another battlefield along the Culodhne Road… two days old, by our guess.”

“Who made up the dead?” Rosslyn asked, trembling. She could hear the restless shift of the army at her back. “ _Who_?”

“Highever men, my lady,” Cam replied in a steady tone. “But surrounded two to one by Amaranthine soldiers and Marcher hirelings.”

“And my father?”

Cam licked his lips. “We… couldn’t find his body.”

She heard a sharp hiss, and realised only when nobody else spoke that the sound had come from her. It had to be real, then, all of it. Her father must be dead. He had known what would happen when he left her at Glenlough, and fell to Howe’s spite, selling his own life to buy her time, and she lost in the wilds – and the _thing_ standing sentinel above the western gate…

“Thank you for telling me this,” she said when she again trusted herself to speak.

“We did find something, my lady.” Cam stood and went to his pony, extracting an oilskin package from behind the saddle that he unwrapped with greatest care and presented to her.

What strength was left in Rosslyn’s body fell away at the sight of the sword, as bright in its grubby wrappings as it had been on the day it had left Highever belted on Bryce Cousland’s hip. She was drawn towards it, reaching out for the wire-wrapped hilt even as she rocked under the tumble of memories the sight unleashed. She recalled its place above the mantel in the study, and in bedtime stories where it was the faithful companion her ancestors had taken to battle and adventure. Once, when she was still so small she needed to stand on a chair to reach it, she had taken it down in secret to see if she could measure up to the legends, and had barely been able to lift it. And now? She frowned and pulled her hand back, curling it into a fist as her vision blurred.

It should have gone to Fergus.

An anxious hum drew her attention downward, to where Cuno nuzzled his wide, blunt head against her side. For once, however, her dog’s lolling smile and steady eyes could do nothing to comfort her.

Cam cleared his throat, glancing to Teagan once again. “There is more, my lady.”

“More?”

“These men,” he said, gesturing with a jut of his chin. “They claim to be Amaranthine deserters. They know what happened in Highever, and gave themselves up willingly. They said – my lady, they said they wished to throw themselves on the mercy of the last Cousland for their actions, if she still lived.”

Rosslyn looked over to where the prisoners cowered, then back to the sword nestled in its wrappings like a viper. _The last Cousland. The last._

“Bring them here,” she commanded, and this time when she reached out, there was no sign of hesitation as her hand wrapped around the hilt. She felt rather than heard Teagan and Gideon close ranks behind her, but didn’t turn around, too busy assessing the condition of the blade – at least the scouts had thought to clean off the grime of battle before giving it to her.

Teagan’s hand fell on her shoulder. “Whatever you intend to do, my lady, I suggest we do not linger. Our position is exposed, and it’s too much to hope we haven’t been noticed already.”

She shrugged him away, blinking back the sting in her eyes. “Let that bastard try me if he dares.”

She ignored the prisoners as they were dragged before her and forced to their knees in the mud, their quiet grunts of pain less of a concern than the effort it cost to keep her hands steady as she worked the buckles of her sword belt loose. Her padded gauntlets became a hindrance, so she tugged them off with her teeth and tucked them under her arm, then passed her own borrowed sword into Gideon’s waiting hands before seeing to the straps of her new weapon. The scabbard didn’t fit properly.

In the rigid silence, the fine rain condensed on her skin, leaving her fingers cold and clumsy. She used the time to choose her words.

“Highever lies smouldering on the order of the man whose crest you wear, and you have come to ask me for mercy,” she said at last, pulling her gauntlets back over calloused palms. She checked the fit and looked up. Her gaze was keen, her voice trembling on the edge of control. “Not many would be so daring, unless you aren’t really deserters, but men sent to finish what an entire company of mercenaries couldn’t.”

One of the younger men, whose hair was the same dull brown as the dirt streaking his face, shifted in his ropes. “Do we look like assassins?” he spat.

The sword flashed into her hand like a shard of lightning. The man yelled and threw his bound hands over his head, jerking away from the deathblow. But Rosslyn turned the blade as she struck downwards. The balance of it was unfamiliar, the swing less controlled than she wanted, but even so the man felt nothing more than a heavy slap where he should have been cleaved to his stomach. He squinted upwards through his overgrown fringe when he realised he could still breathe, his eyes travelling along the glinting length of steel to the imperious figure towering over him.

“You will tell me the truth,” she warned.

The soldier gulped, but nodded.

“You were part of the force that confronted the Teyrn of Highever after he set off from Glenlough.”

“A-aye, my lady,” he answered.

“You saw my father fall?”

A nod. “Arl Howe said we was to go through them no matter the cost. We hammered the teyrn’s men, and the Red Iron went ‘round at the sides. There were some of us – after – it didn’t sit right, even though the arl said as your father was a trait– ah!”

Rosslyn watched the thread of scarlet blood well along the sharp edge of the blade. “Be careful with your accusations,” she snarled as she pressed it deeper against his neck.

“No – please!”

“Lady Cousland!” Teagan once more lay his hand on her shoulder, squeezing until she calmed enough to relax the tension in her arm. “You would have regretted it,” he assured her in a low voice.

“Tell me how the castle was taken,” she growled, with the merest glance behind her. The sword fell to her side.

“He…” The soldier took a shaky breath, glancing between the two nobles who held his life in their good graces. “He asked protection from the keep, said the enemy was close on our heels. We were let through the gate, and then when the teyrna was distracted, I don’t know what with, that blighter Lowan ordered men into the guard towers. Most of yours were dead before anyone twigged.”

Rosslyn sucked in her bottom lip. “What – what happened to my mother?” she managed.

“Sh-she fought back, my lady,” came the slow reply. “She got a sword from someone, and wouldn’t go down, not until she were a pincushion.” The soldier paused, wincing in sympathy for her sharp draw of breath. “After that, the order came down to burn the city, to – I don’t know why, that’s not for grunts like us – only we tried to help, to stop it happening, and Lowan caught us. Us and others – we’re all that’s left.” For a moment he fell quiet. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, my lady. We’re so sorry. _Please_.”

The weather closed about the silence left in the wake of the soldier’s voice, a haze of spitting cloud that stung the eyes and left any exposed skin damp and chilled and itching red. The wind whined through the long silence. Rosslyn wanted to lash out. These men deserved death for their actions – the certainty of it pounded in her ears – but if she gave in to the impulse, it wouldn’t be justice that guided her hand.

“Have them taken to the quartermaster,” she muttered to Gideon after a moment, turning away. “They are to be outfitted according to their skills, and integrated into appropriate units. Those are my orders,” she added when it looked like he was about to protest. “See them carried out.”

“I – yes, my lady.”

Still on their knees, the deserters watched this exchange with a mixture of confusion and barely concealed hope, but even so they flinched away when Rosslyn approached them again, her face set in grim lines.

“You wanted my judgement, so here it is,” she barked. “I will not do Howe’s work for him and execute the mongrels who have slipped his leash. Nor will I spare you based on your word alone – the word of a deserter is worth nothing, and the word of a spy even less than that. My soldiers – the ones whose homes have been razed to the ground, whose families you had a hand in slaughtering – they will be the ones to see you for what you truly are. You will post with them, train with them, and fight with them, and if they find you worthy of forgiveness, that is what you will find in turn. If not,” she added, “then the Maker’s will be done with you.”

She turned away as Gideon called on the house guard and had the prisoners hauled to their feet, finally sheathing the sword. Teagan stepped into line next to her before she could work out what that meant, and laid a hand on her shoulder.

“That was well done,” he said. “Bryce couldn’t have done better.”

She swallowed past the bitter lump in her throat. “That doesn’t make me him.” _He_ would have known what to do, would have known how to fight back against this madness, how to inspire his soldiers to do the same. She lacked experience, a formal title, everything except an uprooted family name, and she knew with certainty that Howe would come for her. The last Cousland was the only obstacle between him and unquestioned authority in the North, a prize worth having if he could use her to legitimise his claim. The thought was sickening.

“Teagan.” Her voice cracked. “For the moment, I cede control of Highever’s forces to your greater experience – if you’ll accept.” It was the only option she could see. “You’re the king’s representative while he remains in Denerim, so… it’s only right.”

Teagan nodded his understanding. “For the moment. I accept. We need to get away from here, before we’re discovered. Howe will know we’re vulnerable, and we can’t answer his treachery if we’re dead.”

Retreat. She gritted her teeth but did not object.

“The secondary camp is at Deerswall,” Alistair suggested, having followed their conversation. “It’s where the western Bannorn were originally supposed to muster before going on to Denerim. We could be there in two days.” For an instant he met Rosslyn’s gaze, but she flinched away as if scalded. There was too much sympathy in the rich brown of his eyes; it made everything too real, too much to bear.

“It’s a good idea,” she said instead, and looked behind her. “The soldiers won’t want to leave.”

“You’ll need to tell them.”

“Me?” Panic scratched at her throat as she stared at Teagan. “But –”

“You’re their figurehead,” he replied calmly. “You’re the one they’ll look to.”

She swallowed. Tried to speak, but found herself holding back tears instead. Barely a week ago, she had resented being left behind. She had jumped at the chance to charge off to Glenlough and prove her mettle, and yet all she could think of now was the library and the smell of baking bread in the kitchens and her mother’s warm laugh.

 _We do what must be done, Pup,_ her father had said before riding away on that last morning. _And I’m leaving you in charge, because I know you’ll keep them safe, no matter what._

“No matter what…” She steadied herself with a breath. “I understand. I’ll do it.” Whether she spoke to Teagan or to her family’s ghosts, it barely mattered. The last Cousland was still a Cousland.

Lasan pawed the ground as she mounted, picking up on the turmoil quivering through her hands, and with barely a nudge he broke into a flashy canter that carried her to the waiting soldiers, so that her standard bearer had to hurry to keep up. They stirred as she approached, having watched the interrogation of Howe’s men with undisguised interest and worked out at least part of what had happened. Rumour was already filling the gaps, and anger fizzed below the rigours of their discipline. When the front ranks were pressed forward by those behind, she realised they expected her to rally them for a fight – they thought she had a plan to save the day, to charge in like she had at Glenlough. Would they even listen to her when she told them otherwise?

With so many eyes on her, it was hard to think. She had been trained for leadership, to address halls of people on feast days, but she had never imagined… _this_.

“Listen.” Her voice emerged as a croak and the soldiers didn’t hear. “Listen!” Lasan shied at the volume of her shout, but she reined him in. She had promised to do her duty.

“I won’t mince my words,” she told them. “But I know you won’t like what I say. What lies before us is a fight we cannot win – not now – and we must retreat.”

Mutters greeted her words and she found herself growing angry again. Did they think she wanted to run away?

“Highever is lost! The castle has been taken through treachery by Arl Howe of Amaranthine, and every one of my family is dead save me. My father – my father’s head sits atop a spike on the castle wall. Rotting next to my mother’s.” The gruesome image reared in her mind, screaming with the imagined cries of gulls and crows, but she pushed it aside, because she had to make them listen.

“There will be a time to grieve,” she said. “But it isn’t now. Now we must respect the sacrifices others have made for us and live so we can bring vengeance another day. And that means we go to Deerswall. But we are _not_ running away.”

It seemed like a petulant way to finish a rousing speech, but Rosslyn didn’t know what else to say. Her father would have said more – and her mother’s bo’sun told her once about the war cries the Seawolf had hurled in the faces of the Orlesians as she chased them down – but her officers moved in and began chivvying the soldiers back the way they had come, and the moment passed. She sat quietly on Lasan’s back and watched as they marched away, trying to look in control even as grief threatened to tear a hole in her chest.

Teagan rode up next to her, but didn’t reach out.

“We should forego a rear guard,” she managed, not looking at him. “At least then they might feel this retreat is a matter of choice.”

“I’ll see to it.” He wavered, as if he wanted to say something else, but then changed his mind and kicked his horse after the infantry.

Only when every soldier had walked past did she guide Lasan into line at the head of the house guard – _her_ house guard now – her shoulders squared and her chin held high. As they stepped once more onto the road, she finally closed her eyes and let her face turn into the rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed the lack of art in this chapter - I really love doing art for this fic, but each one takes about three days to do, which equates to about the amount of time it takes to write a chapter, and since the story is really starting to move, I've decided to skip illustrations in favour of more regular updates.
> 
> *for those who like worldbuilding*
> 
> "A sizeable bluff situated roughly two leagues southwest of Highever, Harrowhill has perhaps the best views of the city, the castle, and the surrounding countryside. When the sun shines on its northern slopes, it is as idyllic a place as I have ever seen, and one would think the Maker had placed it deliberately for travellers to be able to look out over the stunning coastline in order to appreciate His work.  
> The beauty of this place masks a sinister history, however. Before the creation of the Circles, the stone rings on the site’s crest were reportedly used by early templars as the location for the forerunner of the modern harrowing, and it is to this that the hill owes its modern name. As the ritual itself is kept secret, its exact nature is unknown, and therefore its horrors may be freely exaggerated by locals – and often are on quiet nights in the nearby taverns. When entreated to tell me what he knew of the place, one old shepherd of my acquaintance told me he had often seen strange lights on the top of the hill, accompanied by a greenish shimmer ‘akin te a fayne lady’s shaul’. Others corroborated these details, and warned me not to approach the hill after darkness had fallen, lest I should run into maleficar or demons who had chanced to slip through the Veil.  
> Despite this dire warning, it must be said that not all the stories I managed to catalogue about Harrowhill are of such a dour note. Indeed, the site has many associations with Andraste, and locals will proudly confirm that the wood that used to sit atop it was the very same one in which the Bride of the Maker found her sister Halliserre lying dead, and so began her transformation into the Prophet we know today. Of course, with no concrete evidence to support such a tale, the locals may say what they like, but I must confess that although I felt nothing amiss on my visit, I regret that I had not more time to linger here and take more detailed notes."
> 
> \-- From the chapter on Highever in 'The Travels of Ebullient Ser Claremore of Stannis, vol. 2'


	11. I: A Struggle Just Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of Highever's destruction, the mood is grim.

_Twelfth Day of Guardian, 9:32 Dragon_

Darkness fell slowly over the redoubt at Deerswall. A grey day into a formless dusk into a black night lit only by greasy torches that spat at the drizzle. It made things easier in a way; soldiers huddled out of the cold, unwilling to disturb the Canticles sung for the dead, even if there were few with enough heart to listen to the Maker’s words. Instead, they sat in closed-off circles around their campfires, trying to ignore the stench of smoke from the pyres clinging to their hair. They drank from shared flasks as they played Gammon, with their cloaks tucked in at the corners to prevent draughts, and with their weapons within easy reach, waiting for orders that some grumbled would not come.

After all, few had seen the Lady of Highever since she had marched out of the funeral in the middle of the revered mother’s litany, teeth gritted and knuckles white on the hilt of her father’s sword. Since then, she had been seen walking beyond the encampment into the murk of the forest with only her mabari at her heels. The guardsmen sent in after her had yet to return.

Some said she had gone to find a place where water and earth ran together, in the old Alamarri way, to find wisdom among stones and trees that came from an older source than that approved by the Chantry – to find gods who kept faith with those who gave it. As her absence lengthened, however, the rumours grew darker. Perhaps she had simply abandoned them, using the weather and the thickness of the forest as a cover to escape the weight of duty. Those with least faith muttered that she had gone to make peace with Howe, and had betrayed them all.

Such uneasiness penetrated even into the ring off officers’ tents, pitched on raised ground in the middle of the camp. Before the end of the Orlesian occupation it had been designed as the foundations to a grand castle that never saw completion, but now Teagan’s quarters spilled light and warmth over the stones, the mood inside deliberately easy and filled with the comfort of crackling braziers and snoring dogs. He hosted two of his captains, the only members of his senior staff who had so far returned from the tasks assigned at the war meeting that morning. At his elbow was a decanter of brandy, and across the table, maps were spread with annotations and potential actions that had yet to be finalised, but the conversation had long since moved on from official matters.

“She blames herself, poor girl,” sighed Captain Astillo, who had inherited his dark eyes and good humour from his Antivan mother.

Next to him, the short, broad-shouldered Captain Rothby harrumphed. “We can’t afford that. She’s the only thread holding Highever together. Without her, we might as well rename the place ‘North Gwaren’ and have done.” She tipped her head back and drained her glass, exposing the knife scar that cut a diagonal line down her throat.

“No doubt that was Loghain’s plan,” Teagan replied quietly. When he tilted his glass, the amber liquid in it shimmered and caught the firelight. “He chose an effective pawn in Howe – I remember his ambition, but this… nobody could have seen this.”

They fell silent. The march from Highever had consumed any spare thoughts about what happened, but now, a safe distance away from their enemies and with nothing left but time for reflection, the brutality of the Couslands’ fate could finally settle, which was the point. Teagan had known Bryce and Eleanor personally from time at court, had found Fergus to be level-headed and his wife charming, and had no doubts about their son, though he had never met the boy. They had not deserved such deaths.

“Never a bad word came out of the North,” Rothby said, as if she had read his thoughts. “Nought was said about Bryce Cousland that wasn’t that he kept his people fed and his lands prosperous.”

Astillo nodded. “I saw them at Denerim, at the siege, you know? I was just a sergeant at the time. We’d cleared the walls of Feathers, and all that was left was the battle in the harbour – and the _Mistral_ came about from behind a tower, cutting the water like summer swift, and you’d never seen anything so fine.” He smiled and reached for the decanter so he could refill the empty glasses, then raised his own. “To the Soldier and the Seawolf,” he declared. “Maker rest them.”

In the corner, Alistair lifted his head from the disciplinary report he had been reading. He was content to stay out of the way and unnoticed by Teagan’s officers, but hearing them talk about the Couslands only brought back how fragile Rosslyn had looked when he had last seen her, forehead crumpled, lip chewed to bleeding, with her knuckles white on the pommel of her sword. She had thanked him for bringing her the maps and supply list she had asked for that morning, and her frown had softened at his offer to get her anything else she needed.

“Still taking care of me?” she had asked.

“Well, it gets me out of the barracks.”

He regretted such a joking tone now, but at the time, he had been at a loss to better express his desire to help. He remembered the crack in her voice when she had revealed her father’s fate to her soldiers, and how she had sat tall in her saddle regardless, and kept her gaze on the horizon ahead.

He blinked away the image and forced himself back into the present.

“…her inexperience will make people uncertain what to expect. The mood among the men isn’t good,” Teagan was saying.

“She’ll show us her mettle, sure as snow in winter,” Astillo countered.

“As long as she shows it soon, or there’ll be nobody left to see it.” Rothby shook her head so that wisps of ash-blonde hair fell in her eyes. “Highever’s put a shock through everything. To destroy it so completely… It reeks of the Game to me, more than anything His Majesty may or may not have done with their empress – I’m no politician trading words across borders so I can’t speak for that. But without Couslands to stand against him, Loghain would have no uniting force to take him on if King Cailan died, not without another heir to the throne.”

Alistair shifted in his seat, ducking his head to avoid the look Teagan sent his way.

“Bah! Politics!” Astillo scratched at the silver edge of his neatly trimmed beard. “It does nothing but make cowards of honest soldiers.”

He reached out for the decanter again, but before he could offer more brandy around the table, his hand was stalled by a growing commotion from beyond the tent, out of place for the time of night. Voices welled in anger, then seemed to find a rhythm in the way random applause finds a pulse. With a worried glance at Teagan, Alistair rose from his chair and went to investigate, slinging a fleece-lined cloak around his shoulders as he traded the warmth of the tent for the damp Guardian night.

He didn’t have to go far into the common ranks to find the source of the disturbance. At the edge of the parade ground a clump of soldiers heaved against the dim torches in a single mass of shouting, cursing shadows. Surrounding them were stragglers who, like him, had emerged from shelter to find out what was going on, calling to one another over the din in obvious confusion as they were drawn towards the fight. Alistair grabbed the closest by the arm.

“Go find Ser Gideon,” he ordered.

The young soldier blinked, surprised at being addressed directly, but when she recognised Alistair she shot him a crisp salute and dashed away to find the commander of Rosslyn’s house guard. Some of her officers were already in the fray, and as he approached Alistair could see that they were beginning to get people under control. The chanting was dying away into a ring of silent spectators, and all that was left of the actual brawl was a small group of men locked together despite best efforts to separate them.

Eventually the last two combatants were ripped apart and stood panting, one with a split lip and the other sporting a bloody nose, while the officers holding them kept wary holds on the soldiers’ tunics.

Rosslyn’s cavalry captain stepped between them, her arms outstretched in a warning that belied her slight figure.

“That’s enough,” Morrence snapped, rounding on the younger of the two, who wore a cavalry uniform - the soldier who had been tied to Rosslyn’s back after the escape from Glenlough. “I expected better from you, trooper. You’ll go on a charge for this.”

“But Captain, he called Lady Cousland a coward!”

“No more’n what’s true!” his opposite spat. “Bitch might’ve taken you up in Wythenwood, but she left my brother to die on the road like a dog. She abandoned her place and now she’d have us sit here like old biddies – or maybe we’ll all just run away again, and again, until there’s nothing left of the North!”

“Sergeant, take that man’s name,” Morrence growled.

But the comment had roused the crowd again. They pressed forward, jeering at the reprimanded soldier, and Alistair was pushed out by the sheer weight of people in front of him.

“Fuckin’ sot!” someone called. “Diven’ ye have enough brains to realise the lady saved your life too?”

“We’re Cousland’s men!”

“Being a Cousland doesn’t give a lass the balls for knifework,” another voice retorted. “Couldn’t even stick a lot of traitors, and now _we’re_ stuck with ‘em! And we’re not listenin’ to any mongrel knife-ear, neither!”

The words sparked an angry hiss around the circle, loyalists searching for the source of the treacherous comment while others murmured their uncertainty. Morrence’s cheeks darkened but she held firm as three of her lieutenants dived cursing into the throng to drag the offender out into the open. At the other side of the circle, Alistair finally broke through the line.

“The next soldier to throw a punch gets twenty lashes!” he barked. “The one after that – thirty!”

Recognising him, the soldiers quieted, but the threat did nothing to dispel the tension, and the realisation that all of that hostile energy was now directed at him made his palms sweat. He glanced at Morrence, who waited with luminous eyes to see what he would do.

_Right then._

He cleared his throat, tried his best to glare. “You all know the rules. Brawling in camp will not be tolerated, and neither will dissent. You are to follow your orders and save your strength for the battlefield.”

The soldier who had started the fight spat on the ground again, muttering. “If we ever get to see one.”

Both Morrence and Alistair turned to confront him, but before they could do anything but open their mouths, a sharp voice rang out over the assembled company.

“What’s going on here?”

The crowd scurried apart with a startled murmur. Rosslyn’s tall figure loomed out of the night, wrapped in shadows, with the torchlight glinting on the rain-matted strands of her hair. As she prowled forward, the ragged edges of her appearance became easier to spot – the aurum greaves stained from kneeling in the mud, the streaks of grime on her face cut across by tear-tracks. Her poise, however, remained absolute, that of a basalt cliff determined to stand in spite of the sea. Alistair felt something unpleasant snake in his gut, remembering the bright young woman who had shared her breakfast with him only a few days before.

Her glare was focussed on the soldier who had started the fight, her brows drawn into a fierce scowl that shadowed her eyes. “Do you have something to say to me?” she asked him. “Well?”

The soldier glanced to the mabari at her side, then to her sword, and then as high as her chin before his nerve failed and he fixed his sight on her boots instead. “No, my lady.”

“No,” she repeated slowly. “Hm. And what about the rest of you?” Her eyes slashed through the crowd, sharp as flint. “Do any of you have the courage to say to my face what you were shouting behind my back?”

Some shuffled their feet or stole looks at those next to them, but none spoke, and none would meet her gaze. Rosslyn waited, but when nobody stepped forward she shook her head, an ugly sneer twisting her mouth.

“To think my father used to speak of his army with such _pride_.” She swallowed. “And now look. Does none of you realise this infighting is exactly what Howe wants? Why do you think Highever was razed, if not to make us doubt, to break our courage so that he can destroy us without having to face us in a fair fight?” She laughed, the sound brittle in the dark. “To see it working so well is a disgrace.”

“And what else are we supposed to do?” someone called.

“We supposed to just sit here?”

Rosslyn cocked her head in the direction of the shouts, but otherwise did not move. Her eyes passed over Alistair, lingered on him for the briefest instant before she steeled herself to reply.

“Soldiers who cannot follow orders are of no use to me,” she growled. “Hotheads who start brawls in camp are only a danger to themselves on the battlefield. So you can go. Home’s that way. Have fun storming the castle.”

The soldiers glanced at each other. Dressing-downs they could handle. Sergeants who shouted orders and commanders who sent them into battle stone-faced were to be expected, but this speech was too raw, too full of hurt and anger and hollow grief for them to know how to respond.

“And look at that,” she hummed, glancing around at the circle of waiting men. “Not one of you has moved. Does this mean there’s still some courage left in the North?”

Breaths held, no one answered. The only sound was the crackle of the torches.

“We start in the morning,” she told them, turning away. “And you can find out first hand whether a _lass_ has the balls for knifework. _Dismissed_.”

And that was the end of it. Mud sucked at Rosslyn’s boots as she stalked across the open ground, pausing only to order latrine duty for the instigators of the fight, and whatever punishment Morrence willed for the one who had insulted her. Lacking the will to stay out in the cold without orders, the crowd melted away to their tents, and within moments the parade ground was all but deserted. Relieved, Alistair ran a hand through his hair, a low breath puffing out his cheeks.

“You showed up just in time, my lady,” he joked when she stopped next to him. “I was afraid they were going to eat me.”

“Surely our stores aren’t quite _that_ low?” she asked dryly. Now that nobody was watching, the careful façade slipped, and grey fatigue pinched the corners of her eyes. “I’m glad to be of service. Since you’re here, would you mind coming with me? I need to talk to Teagan.”

Despite himself, Alistair grinned at the familiarity of the words the lack of pretention in the request. “Of course – lead on.”

Together they wended through the camp, his stride shortened to keep time with her limping pace, until they were among the officers’ tents and he finally plucked up the courage to ask, despite the impropriety, if she was alright. She halted mid-step, turning to regard him with furrowed brows. For an instant she struggled to find the right words, her lips framing concepts that stalled on the tip of her tongue. He regretted asking, tried to stammer out an apology, but before he could manage more than a few stumbling words she swallowed and shook her head, trying for a smile.

The effort faded quickly.

“There’s work to do,” she said instead, and headed for the light spilling from Teagan’s tent.


	12. I: The Sword and the Hand that Wields It pt1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosslyn makes a triumphant return after weeks of battle, but things don't go quite as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art in this chapter by the wonderful allenvooreef over on tumblr. If you're looking for some DA art, I would seriously recommend commissioning her.

_Fifteenth day of Drakonis, 9:32 Dragon_

“They’ve been busy.”

Rosslyn glanced at Morrence, who grinned widely atop her gelding, and shook her head in exasperation. Now that they were within sight of Deerswall, she felt the tension in her shoulders ease a little, but she lacked the energy for anything more. The sun was barely above the horizon, and already her cavalry had been riding for over two hours.

Almost a month ago, she had sent small units of fighters into Highever’s heartlands with orders to disrupt Howe’s takeover of her home in any way they could. The rogues blocked roads, stole supplies, and showed the people there was still a fight to be had, if they wanted one. When had she followed barely a week later to raid the weakened Amaranthine patrols, stories of her tragedy had already spread and grown so that, wherever she went, the people rallied into open defiance and Howe’s soldiers swiftly learned to keep their hands to their sword hilts.

It was never enough. Stories whispered in taverns told how, wherever the enemy threatened, she swept in like a falcon out of the sun, never leaving anything but death in her wake, and the epithet stuck. She liked it. She had decided, in the grove at Deerswall, surrounded by the smell of damp moss and the whisper of her mother’s gods, that she would make Howe regret her escape, make him fear the very shadow of her name before she took her vengeance, and what better way to become the raptor most beloved of the Lady?

But the weeks of guerrilla fighting had taken their toll, and now the guards at the outer gate scrambled to salute as they called ahead to let everyone know of her return to Deerswall.

She had to admit, the work was impressive. Where before there were only lines of muddy tents, now there was a palisade, barracks, stables, training yards, and at the very centre a wooden keep still under scaffolding, crowned with the fluttering colours of all the vassals who had answered her muster. There were fewer than there should have been, but then again, word of her family’s murder had spread, and the Bannorn could not be blamed for deciding to wait before they committed themselves, especially when she had so few soldiers to protect them.

She shook the thought from her mind, smoothing the worry from her face to sit taller in her saddle. People – mostly refugees, by the look of them – were gathering along the main road to get a look at the troopers as they filed past. Rosslyn nodded to Morrence and within moments the cavalry settled into parade columns three abreast, trotting towards the keep with the Falcon of Highever proudly at their head. Lasan arched his marbled neck and flared his tail, and Rosslyn smiled at the way he flaunted himself for the crowd. The curved raptor’s beak moulded into her helmet hid the expression from the people watching, but it also hid the dark circles beneath her eyes and the stiffness caused by her bruises, so she kept it on. As all eyes turned to her, she felt glad that she had heeded her captain’s advice and already sent the injured ahead to the infirmary; in such uncertain times the people needed to see her victories, not what it cost to achieve them.

The main gate of the palisade groaned open ahead of her. The odours of sawn wood and animal dung, hot metal and baking bread, spilled out with the first glimpse of the keep, and the murmurs of the crowd grew louder. Someone was singing, though she didn’t catch the words. Teagan stood at the top of the steps that led into the hall, his expression too far away to see, while around him clustered the bevy of lords who had answered her call. She scanned the dais, out of mere idle curiosity, but twinge of disappointment fluttered in her gut nonetheless when nobody else appeared. Of course, it was silly to think –

“Lady Falcon! Lady Falcon!”

She caught a flash of yellow. Lasan caught it too and baulked, a catlike leap sideways that almost carried him into the crowd. Rosslyn might have reined him in, might have found her seat again and calmed the beating of her heart, but as her horse danced against the bit to face his unknown enemy, a man came barrelling into his path, yelling as he threw himself between the little girl and the threat of flailing hooves.

The world upended. Lasan reared, bellowing. Rosslyn grabbed for his mane, cursed as it slipped through her fingers, lost all sense in the one weightless instant when the sky lurched and blurred with the scared, shocked faces of the people behind her.

“My lady!”

She clung to her seat with only iron will, the specially designed prongs of the cavalry saddle digging into her thigh. The reins bunched in the hand gripped against the saddlebow. The other splayed as a brace against Lasan’s trembling neck. Through the thrill of her nerves, her nose filled with the sharp, dusty odour of equine sweat, the scuffed balsam of pine chippings from the path churned beneath his hooves. Distantly, under the ring of silence and snorted breath, she heard the sound of someone crying.

“Lady Rosslyn?” Morrence’s voice. “Are you alright?”

“ _Gabh air do shocair_ ,” she muttered in Clayne as she slithered inelegantly the rest of the way to the ground. Her legs shook as her feet touched earth, but she kept her voice steady, soothing. “ _Bhith ci_ _ùin. Chaidh am blàr a tha thairis_.”

Her charger’s ears flicked towards the sound of her voice as she came to his head. Every bunched muscle stood tense, his neck arched and eyes rolling, and her arms were barely long enough to reach up to his cheek, but by degrees her words reached through his training and his panic – _calm, be calm, the battle is over_ – the proud head lowered, and Rosslyn allowed herself a breathy chuckle. “There, now that was silly of you, wasn’t it?”

Lasan snorted and gave her shoulder a good-natured shove.

“You can stand down, I’m fine,” she told the waiting Morrence, and glanced over at the man who had caused the uproar.

He flinched. His brawny arms wrapped more tightly around the child he had dived to protect, the fear in his expression betraying the soft reassurances he tried to whisper in her ear. The girl sniffled and buried herself deeper against her father’s leather smock, her sunshine yellow dress stained and the sprays of white Andraste’s grace braided into her hair thrown into disarray. A pair of guards stood on either side, grim-faced but resolute, waiting for orders.

 _She’s younger than Oren_ , Rosslyn realised, and had to push aside the clench in her chest. The people were watching. Lasan nudged her arm again.

“Is the child hurt?” Sawdust caked the back of her throat.

“N-no, just shaken.” The farrier darted a glance at the armoured men looming next to him, then back to his daughter, and finally to Rosslyn, earnest. “Please, Yer Ladyship, she meant no harm. It’s her name day, y’see, and she wanted’a see ye…” He faltered. “I shoulda kept a closer watch on her, I’m sorry.”

Around them, the crowd buzzed, waiting to see what Rosslyn would do. Her reputation as a warrior might make them cheer for her, her lucky escapes might be fodder for stories, but it was her response in this moment that would win or lose their loyalty forever. Easing out a slow breath, she reached up and undid the clasp that still held the falcon helmet in place, welcoming the cool air against her forehead when she removed it so the implacable mask of the Lady of Highever could fall away.

“What’s your name, girl?” she asked, as gently as she could.

The farrier’s eyes widened. He jiggled her on his hip to get her to look at him. “Are ye going te answer Lady Falcon?” He smiled encouragement, half-turning her in his arms so she could face Rosslyn directly.

The girl flushed, red as her hair. “M-Molly…” she answered, and hid herself away again.

“ _Your Ladyship_ ,” her father prompted.

“… Y’ Ladyship,” Molly repeated dutifully.

Rosslyn’s frown softened. “Molly. You scared my horse.”

“Din’ mean to.” The girl sniffed. “Y’ Ladyship.”

“He’s a big, silly beast, and he meant nothing by being startled,” Rosslyn mused, taking a tentative step closer. “Would you like to make friends instead?”

Molly peeked out from her father’s shoulder, eyes wide, and nodded. Like something out of her bedtime stories, she watched as the towering roan charger plodded towards her, led at the lightest touch by the proud warrior maiden her father had said would save them all. The stallion’s ears pricked forward, a cautious regard that eased as every beat ticked by and nothing leaped out to attack him, until at last, with a greeting whuff of breath, he lowered his head to accept the feel of tiny, hopeful fingers.

“He’s so soft!” Molly’s giggle broke the bated silence of the onlookers. “Good horsie!”

The ghost of a smile touch Rosslyn’s lips. “His name is Lasan.”

“Lasan.” Molly smiled and repeated the name to herself, babbling compliments while the adults talked in serious voices and the horse basked in the attention, as if he hadn’t been preparing to kill everything within range of his hooves just moments before. She traced the velvet lines of his nostrils and the uneven white snip splashed between them, and beamed when he lipped at her palm, looking for a treat.

“I canna apologise enough, Yer Ladyship,” her father was saying. “I just panicked. She – she’s all I’ve got left.”

Rosslyn nodded, stroking a hand along her horse’s neck. “I understand.”

“Aye, I know.”

Stiffening, Rosslyn pressed her lips together and cleared her throat. “I’m glad she wasn’t hurt, at least. And that’s enough pampering for you, I think,” she added to Lasan, who swished his tail and grunted at the unexpected twitch in the reins.

“But he likes being petted!” Molly whined.

“He needs te go to the stables, pet, and have some breakfast,” her father explained. “He’s very tired.”

“Oh.” The girl sagged in his arms. “Alrigh’.”

“H’oway then, and say goodbye te Her Ladyship.”

Rosslyn smiled. “It was good to meet you, Molly.”

Suddenly shy again, Molly ducked her head and clung to her father’s shoulders, but smiled out as she mumbled, “Good’a meet ye too, Y’ Ladyship.”

“That’s it, now let’s –”

 “Wait!”

Rosslyn turned, blinking in surprise. Molly wriggled on her father’s shoulder, fidgeting with her hair until a stalk of wilted white flowers came away in her fist. Not quite understanding, the farrier waited while Rosslyn bent her head to allow the gift to be knotted behind her ear.

“How does it look?” she asked when Molly leaned back to survey her handiwork.

“Good.”

“Thank you.” She straightened. “I will treasure it.”

“There’s a good lass. Let’s let Lady Falcon be on her way now.”

The little girl’s farewell followed Rosslyn all the way to the bottom of the keep steps, where the cluster of nobles had gathered to greet her. Though they all gave her respectful bows as she approached, only Teagan seemed genuinely pleased to see her alive and whole and untrampled. She passed Lasan’s reins to a groom with a final pat and nodded to Morrence, who took charge of dismissing the company.

It left her to deal with the nobles, all standing in a line: Bann Loren, watery-eyed and bald as an acorn; Telmen of Aidanthwaite, with wisps of grey in his dark hair; Crestwood’s Bann Auldubard, who could still be called a youth, if only just. And there in the centre was Bann Franderel, who had always given her father such headaches, his thin arms crossed over his thin chest, looking her over the way a polecat might regard a fledgling bird. It was he who had summoned her, like she was a dog to come to the whistle. Like she had nothing more important to do.

“Well met, my lords,” she said brightly, with a smile she didn’t feel. “It’s a lovely morning, don’t you think?”

“Made all the lovelier by your return, my lady,” Loren replied. He had always been a sycophant.

“It was perhaps more eventful than we were expecting,” added Teagan.

Auldubard nodded his agreement. “A very fine entrance, indeed.”

“It was lucky the situation resolved itself as it did,” Franderel sniffed over the mutterings of agreement, his arms still crossed. “Destriers are always unpredictable, and when added to a teeming crowd… well, we are all just relieved my lady came out of it unhurt.”

Rosslyn nodded acknowledgement of the sentiment, if not its lack of sincerity. “Your letter was urgent, wasn’t it?” she asked sweetly. “I rode all the way from Tarleton to be here – I thought it best to come directly.”

Franderel’s eyes narrowed. “Such matters are best discussed inside, my lady. Away from prying ears.”

“Then by all means, lead on.”

“If you would like to freshen up first,” Auldubard offered, “we would be more than happy to wait.”

“Of course,” said Franderel. “All the way from Tarleton – the journey must have exhausted you.”

It was a test. Rosslyn could tell by the way his lip was curling, but he gave nothing else away. On the one hand, a rest would grant her a precious hour or two in which to compose herself to properly face the inevitable back-and-forth, but in so doing she would admit her fatigue – or it might suggest she valued her vanity over whatever important matter they needed to discuss. The other option, to go with them immediately, would show her willingness to put business before her own comfort, though that in itself might paint her as too obliging, lacking her own will.

In the end, she was decided by her desire to be away from their politicking as soon as possible. Tugging off her gauntlets, she mounted the steps, knowing they would move out of her way.

“I’m a little tired, maybe, but still perfectly capable.” She smiled blithely at Franderel. “After you, my lords.”

They could not refuse such an invitation, and one by one they filed through the double doors and into the keep. Auldubard hesitated for a moment, but when she kept her attention on the arrangement of her gloves over her arm, he followed after the others. Franderel might have scuppered her chance for a bath and a meal, but she was determined to at least set the pace of the meeting.

She was about to follow when she noticed a familiar figure standing in the shadow of the doors. Alistair was making himself busy by riffling through the pile of papers clutched in his arm, as if to give her the opportunity to walk past him without acknowledgement, if she wanted.

“I see you’re keeping well,” she said instead.

He looked up, caught, and cleared his throat. “Lady Rosslyn.”

“Ser Alistair.”

There was a pause.

“I am well, thank you. Um.” He frowned. “No furry shadow today?”

“I’m afraid not,” she replied, with a faint quirk of her lips. “As you know, Cuno rates his breakfast more highly than his loyalty, but he’s fine.”

“And you?” Alistair asked. He ran a hand through his hair so it stuck up at the back, sneaking a shy look at her from the corner of his eyes. “Are you… alright?”

Rosslyn snorted. “How do I look?”

He looked at her properly, then, with a care that squeezed on her chest, taking in every detail of her appearance from the tangles in her hair to the bloodstains that mired in the crevices of her armour.

“Honestly?” he asked. “You look exhausted. But,” he added, perhaps noticing he had taken a step closer to her, “uh, you seem a little bit more _graceful_ than usual.” His eyes flicked to the white flowers in her hair.

Her hand followed the movement before she could check the impulse. “You have a terrible sense of humour.”

Alistair shrugged. “It can’t be that bad, if it’s made you smile.”

“And in just a few short moments Franderel will do his utmost to ruin all your good work,” she teased, biting her lips together to control the spread of her grin. She sighed. “You wouldn’t happen to know what this is all about, would you?”

“Nobles only, I’m afraid, and I don’t count. But I could take those, if you like,” he added, nodding to her gauntlets and helmet.

She shook her head. “You look overworked as it is. It’s alright, I’ll –” She was interrupted by a loud, unladylike rumble from her stomach. Heat flooded her cheeks, but Alistair only chuckled.

“Looks like someone should have followed the example of their dog,” he said. “Let me at least have a servant bring something to your rooms. Long, boring meetings always go by faster if there’s a hot meal to look forward to at the end of it.”

“So speaks the voice of experience?”

He winked at her, making her smile again. “Don’t let on.”

“Food would be welcome. Thank you.” She fiddled with the buckle on her helmet, realising she had lingered outside long after she meant to – and people were looking. “I should go.”

“Of course.” He gave her a crisp bow. “It’ good to have you back.”

He retreated, and she watched after him as he descended the steps towards the armoury. Her thoughts had wandered to him every now and then on the road, when things were quiet, but she had forgotten how much lighter she felt just being in his presence. A lingering reaction to the circumstances of the night they met, no doubt.

If only dealing with the banns could be so pleasant. They were gathered in the war room, arranged on the opposite side of the table to the door – to her – their contention disguised as deference. As she looked at them, Rosslyn understood the trap Franderel had set for her, and she fought the urge to spin on her heel and run from the embarrassment. Outside, it had mattered little that she was wearing armour and they more genteel clothing, but indoors, surrounded by soft fabrics and clean floors, she looked out of place. Sweaty, muddy, _clanking_.

She glared at the maps on the table, wrestling down the sudden lump in her throat that tasted bitterly of homesickness. At Highever, if her father had showed up fresh from the battlefield, he would have commanded attention and respect, rather than contempt and backbiting; she herself would have stood in his shadow, quietly learning how to manage armies and nobles and everything else that was a teyrn’s duty, and if she had mis-stepped, he would have been there to intercede.

_None of this should be happening._

She lifted her chin. Be fearless, her mother always said, and it will make them unsure what to do with you.

“Is my lady ready to begin?” Franderel asked.

“I’m eager to see what was so important it took me from the field,” she replied. “From the tone of your letter, I’d guess there’s been a change in our circumstances.”

“Indeed. I have the letter here.”

Franderel withdrew a folded piece of paper from his belt and passed it over. It was addressed to ‘The Commander of the Loyal of His Majesty in the North’ but when Rosslyn turned it over, she found the green wax seal had already been cracked open, the Portcullis stamped across it split down the middle.

“The contents are quite straightforward,” Franderel told her as she unfolded the page. “Arl Leonas sends word of a blizzard moving over southern Ferelden – the courier only just made it out of South Reach in time. As you can see, the letter was dated five days ago, and the storm itself is not expected to pass until tomorrow.”

“The Southron Gap is blocked,” Rosslyn mused. “The way the wind blows down there will make travel difficult through the Brecilian Passage for weeks.”

Auldubard nodded, smiling. “Loghain is trapped in Gwaren.”

“Indeed,” added Franderel. “We must seize this chance and make for Denerim while we can.”

Rosslyn frowned, but before she could open her mouth to reply, Loren interjected. “This is the Maker’s will, my lady. Surely you see that. Once we are in Denerim, nobody will doubt the king’s legitimacy.”

“And with your recent actions, as you yourself have said, Howe will struggle to foot a sufficient enough force to challenge us.”

“It will serve as a firm base from which to finally put down Teyrn Loghain and his rebels.”

The lot of them seemed too enthusiastic in their arguments, and too certain of their effects. Rosslyn felt her temper flare. They had already decided their course of action, and were trying to sway her to their side, to control her actions with a few pretty words. She looked to Teagan, who had yet to speak and was staring down at the table as if he thought by scowling at it hard enough, it could make him invisible.

“What about the refugees?” she asked. “Are you saying we should abandon them?”

“They can go south, or west,” Loren replied with a shrug. “The shores of Lake Calenhad are sparsely populated.”

“There are elderly and children out there,” she pointed out. “People who can’t move as quickly as an army. The instant we leave, Howe will swoop down on them and do as he pleases.” Broken families like Molly’s would be torn apart further, and from what she had seen in recent weeks, death would be the kindest outcome for them.

Telmen raised an eyebrow. “What makes you so sure he would waste his energy on civilians, my lady?”

“Tired, hungry people are easier to kill than trained soldiers.” Rosslyn spoke slowly, to be sure he understood. “Howe has already proven he has no conscience, and Rillside’s declaration of support has shown him what he might gain from wholesale slaughter.” She could imagine it, how many other banns wold side with Loghain out of fear for their lives or their people’s wellbeing; his cause would gain momentum like a rockslide and bury their own. “He would kill them out of spite, if nothing else.”

“And who provoked him in the first place?” Franderel asked with a pointed look in her direction. “We’ve seen the reports from our scouts. Who is it has been crowning his fallen captains with laurel wreaths for him to find like this is some sort of children’s game?”

“Who has been drawing Howe’s gaze so he does not turn his attention further south?” she retorted. “You’re welcome to try and stand your militia against Amaranthine without my soldiers acting as your shield.” Her gaze flashed to the other banns. “Crestwood and Oswin, too, while we’re at it.”

“Then what do you propose?” Telmen asked. He spoke to the floor, though the buffer provided by West Hill meant his lands faced a less immediate threat from an attack from the north.

“Retake Highever.  Use the blizzard, draw Howe out and beat him before reinforcements can arrive from the south.”

“A waste. We have no siege engines. The breathing space this weather provides will be better spent reaching Denerim to better protect the king,” Franderel insisted.

“And then what? While we remain outside the capital we have the advantage of mobility, something we will lose if we trap ourselves within Denerim’s walls. All Loghain would need to do is wait until we run out of food.”

“All Howe will need to do is wait until we run out of men to throw against the gates of Castle Cousland.”

Rosslyn fixed the banns with a steely glare. “It _can_ be done.”

“There are several options that could be discussed, if only we could all calm down,” Teagan suggested. He was ignored.

“I wonder at the true reason for my lady’s hesitation,” said Franderel silkily. “Inexperience is understandable, and hot-headedness is often paired with youth.” His smile widened, and Rosslyn felt her temper heating further. “Perhaps you cling to the rumours that have emerged regarding surviving members of your family. We’ve all heard them. Is that why you were so adamant to lead the cavalry yourself, my lady, why you are so eager to put your pride above loyalty to the king? Do you think to make yourself a hero with a daring rescue? Do you think if you swing your sword hard enough, it will allay the guilt of your parents’ deaths?”

The slam of Rosslyn’s fist on the table reverberated on the walls, and in the echoes, the weight of her breathing was the only sound that remained. The impact tingled all the way up to her elbow, but she didn’t care. Her heart punched against her ribs, every muscle held tense just on the edge of control. She could do it. She could cross the room; she could take Franderel by the back of his greying, thinning hair and crack his condescending smirk against the table like an egg.

“That’s enough,” Teagan snapped, but the damage was already done. “Lady Rosslyn, you –”

She shrugged off the placating hand he laid on her shoulder. “You forget your place, my Lord of West Hill.”

Franderel’s smile turned beneficent. “My lady forgets that without my generosity, _she_ would have no place at all.”

“And I will remember that generosity in the future,” she ground out in reply. “For now, know this: I will not sacrifice my people for some ill-conceived attempt to woo the king’s favour. Go to Denerim if you must, but you will go alone.” She straightened, pulling her shoulders back far enough that her joints popped. The movement brought back the ache in her muscles, the groans she had heard from those of her soldiers who had been wounded in the field and had to be put out of their agony along the road. “This meeting is over.”

Without another word she turned away from them all, poised as a cat, and swept from the war room into the narrow corridor beyond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated!
> 
> *for the peeps who enjoy worldbuilding*
> 
> Deerswall - a direct translation of the original Orlesian 'Hart-le-Mur'. During the Orlesian occupation of Ferelden, the usurper king Meghren ordered the construction of a fort to guard the Imperial Highway between Lake Calenhad and Tarleton, in an attempt to disrupt the supply lines for Maric’s rebel army. The man given responsibility for the task was Compte Guillarme de l’Anciers Subois, a young, somewhat arrogant army commander who used a stag as his personal sigil. Beginning in the winter of 8:99 Blessed, he used a huge taskforce to raise the walls of the settlement in the West Hill Bannorn, but when Loghain Mac Tir defeated the Orlesians at the Battle of River Dane, Compte Guillarme was caught trying to flee and the fort itself was never finished. Not inclined to waste their own efforts, the Fereldans pressganged into the workcrews moved out of their own ramshackle dwellings and into the more impressive Orlesian constructs. Without anything else to call it the town retained its original name, though without the Orlesian pretension. All that remains of the original fortification is the earthen redoubt upon which the castle would have been built.  
> \-- "From in Pursuit of Knowledge: Travels of a Chantry Scholar" by Brother Genitivi
> 
> A quick note on the Alamarri: In my version of Ferelden, the Alamarri languages are roughly equivalent to the languages present in Britain before modern English (Chasind ~ Welsh, Avvar ~ Old Norse, Clayne ~ Scots Gaelic). Saying that, I know nothing about these languages that Google translate won't tell me, so if anyone reading actually knows Scots Gaelic and is appalled by my shoddy, shoddy Clayne, please tell me!
> 
> I'll stop talking now...


	13. I: The Sword, part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair has a bad day, then Rosslyn challenges him to a duel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this house, we behave like adults and settle our differences with swords. aka the mandatory sparring session wrapped up in unresolved sexual tension.
> 
> Props to anyone who can spot the Mass Effect reference ;)

Alistair had a difficult morning. After a hurried breakfast, he was waylaid by Ser Nevvis, the aide-de-camp in charge of the archers who had arrived two days before from Waking Sea. The man was incorrigible, inflated by the fact that Bann Alfstanna had personally put him in charge, and it took twenty minutes before he could ease the man’s bluster and sort out the problem of billeting. Then, he was forced to deal with a complaint from the quartermaster, and then the head blacksmith – and then the chief of the impromptu merchants’ guild came to see him too.

The only break in the fog was the two minutes where Rosslyn had spoken to him, had actually looked pleased to see him. He had worried for her while she was gone, perhaps more than proper, though he didn’t dare entertain the idea that she might have spared him a thought in return. He was only an officer, and only elevated that high because Teagan had taken pity on him as a child. Still, the bashful smile she had offered as she joked with him, with the star-white flowers in her hair, left a peculiar kind of lightness in his chest, and for a while – though he knew it was ridiculous – the image created a wall between his mood and all the people who seemed to have nothing better to do than shout at him.

And then Teagan found him arguing with a drayman whose horse had come up lame, and in a rough, exhausted voice, told him to find the errant teyrn’s daughter and check on her. He didn’t give details, but Alistair guessed easily enough that it had something to do with Franderel.

He tried her quarters first, but the local woman employed as her new maid shook her head and returned to the arrangement of daffodils in a vase on the windowsill. The dog, evidently returned from breakfast in the kennels, snored fitfully on the bed. As he rand a hand through his hair to work out where to go next, he noticed the sprig of Andraste’s grace that had been woven into her hair stood in a pill bottle on the table, next to the plate of food he had had sent to her. It relieved him more than it should to see it was scraped clean.

“You might try the training grounds,” the maid offered when he still lingered.

“Thank you,” he replied, already marching back into the corridor when the young woman curtseyed prettily at him.

He almost missed Rosslyn in the lists, too. When he finally caught a flash of steel beyond the ranks of training recruits, he hung back, unwilling to interrupt. An area had been cleared for her near the horse paddocks, away from the soldiers drilling under Arms Master Grint, and when he realised what she was doing, Alistair felt a coil of anticipation stir in his gut.

 The exercise was known as the Orchard, an advanced technique designed to teach precision and fluidity in battle against multiple opponents. She stood surrounded by twelve thin poles, all set at different heights, topped with cabbages worm-eaten from winter storage. The goal was simple, if difficult to achieve: instead of following a set pattern of steps, the student improvised their movements to glide between the poles and strike each object from its plinth without touching the wood it rested on, in as few steps as possible. The ground was already scattered with the crinkled remains of previous rounds, and whole motley crate of vegetables awaited their turn to be on the receiving end of Rosslyn’s frustrations.

She shifted into a beginning stance, guard up, shield held close to her left side. His own fighting style lacked the finesse to perform such an exercise well, but as she wove through the poles, he started to understand why her army held her in such high regard. Her footwork was impeccable, her grace undeniable. When her sword flicked out, the action opened from her centre rather than her arms, which loaned more power to the stroke, and control enough that she could withdraw and change direction like a leaf turning in the breeze.

He stopped noticing the mechanics of her form when the fourth cabbage dropped in two pieces before the third even hit the ground. The sun flashed on her hair, gathered into a bun at the nape of her neck, the effort of the exercise bringing a pink blush to her cheeks that set her grey eyes dancing. But after the sixth cabbage a frown creased her brows, drawing down over her eyes as a snarl of frustration pulled her lips upwards over her teeth. Her strikes lost their polish. With the instincts of a soldier, he saw the sword gaining momentum independent of her control, swinging wide on the outside edges of her strokes, creating chinks in her defence when she had to overcompensate with her shield arm.

The exercise ended with the dull slam of metal on wood and a hissed curse as the last cabbage bounced off the ground and rolled away, untouched. Alistair let out the breath he had been holding, his mouth dry. Rosslyn yanked the blade from where it was wedged in the pole and stepped away with a growl, pushing hair and sweat carelessly out of her eyes – until then she spotted him. Her face flushed a deeper red even as she rolled her shoulders back.

“Is there something you need?”

He gulped. “Do you, uh, want to talk about what’s bothering you?”

“There’s nothing bothering me.” She stalked away from him towards a low table laden with a water pitcher and a cloth, discarding her shield as she went. The sword she treated with more care, taking the cloth to the flat of the blade so she could wipe away the sting of cabbage juice.

“Clearly.” He dared to step closer. “You know, if you’re planning to do this until the kitchens run out of vegetables completely, you’d probably get on better with a different sword.”

She paused. “Did Teagan send you?”

“Well…”

“Tell him he’s wasting his time. I’ve had enough of being patronised today.”

Alistair frowned. “He’s only trying to help.”

“Feel free to tell him what a _marvellous_ job he’s doing.” She delicately picked a speck of cabbage off the hilt of her sword, her mouth curled with affected disdain.

“There’s no need to get tetchy,” he grumbled. “And just so you know, Teagan’s the only reason we’re not already marching to Denerim, so you might show some gratitude.”

She levelled an incredulous stare at him, and too late he swallowed back his impertinence. He had forgotten protocol, as he so often did in her presence, but realising he should have known better didn’t lessen the cut of _that look_. He cleared his throat and looked down to the scuffed toes of his boots, a mumbled, formal apology dragging over his tongue. When he glanced up, the haughty glare was gone and she was biting her lip.

The silence between them grew awkward.

“Look…” He sighed. “Whatever Bann Franderel said – he’s very good at getting under other people’s skin, but that doesn’t mean what he says is true.”

Her shoulders stiffened. “Whatever that weasel did or did not say to me,” she snarled, “it’s no concern of yours.” With a shake of her head, she turned away from him again and sheathed her sword, intent now on resetting the poles for another round, but after the first few steps she halted, the cabbage she had failed to cleave before now held loosely in her palm.

“What’s wrong with my blade?” she asked, without looking at him. Her voice still held an edge, but the anger bunched in her shoulders had softened.

Alistair huffed. He shouldn’t be opening his mouth, but he had never been very good at shutting up at the proper time. “It was made for someone with a longer reach than yours. The weight is balanced too far towards the point and it swings wide.”

“Perhaps that’s why I’m practicing.”

“Ignoring ill-suited equipment might work in the tilt yard, but in a real battle it’ll get you killed,” he snapped, forgetting protocol again. “Excuse me for trying to help.”

For a long moment, Rosslyn didn’t answer. Her thoughts were her own as she eyed the sword girded at her side, the white steel shaped like a willow leaf in an ancient Alamarri style, from a time when forging techniques produced chunkier, less sophisticated weapons. A muscle ticked in her jaw.

She faced him again. the cabbage dropped to the ground with a dull _thud_. “Show me.”

He blinked. “You want to spar – with real weapons? _Now_?” So much could go wrong. He might injure her, and then he would be in trouble, and what if –

“Unless you’re not a match for me?” A militant gleam shone in her eyes now, a challenge without even a hint of mirth. But he had his pride, too, and the world shrank to the bare ten paces that separated them as he squared up to her.

“If I do match you, you’ll admit I’m right – find another sword to use?”

Her head tilted to the side, that lop-sided smirk of hers enough to make his insides squirm. “ _If_.”

* * *

 

Word of the fight spread through the barracks within the time it took for the runner to reach the officers’ quarters with instructions to retrieve Alistair’s weapons from the glorified box that served him as both bedroom and office. By the time the poor lad returned, laden down with a sword and shield that together probably weighed about the same as he did, he had to battle his way through a mob of soldiers five deep around the ring who had drifted in to watch the spectacle. Silver glinted between palms as bets were taken, passed along with good-natured insults between Cousland loyalists and staunch Rainesfere men.

In the centre of the commotion, calm and quiet, the two warriors padded up in practice gear.

“Honour must be satisfied, Madam Enchanter,” Rosslyn said, without looking up from the buckles on her cuirass. “That sour look does nothing.”

“I have enough patients already without you two clobbering each other senseless, my lady,” Wynne shot back. “If this is about satisfying honour, I’ll eat my own boots.” The old woman’s arms were crossed over her chest, the expression on her face unchanged since she had first noticed the gathering and come to investigate.

Rosslyn tightened the final strap on her vambraces. “Your objections are noted.”

She picked up her sword from where it had been resting against the closest ring-post, and checked the bark sheath on the blade to make sure it wouldn’t come loose. Such bindings were reserved for high level training, light enough not to impede balance or add extra weight, but strong enough to protect the blade from blunting – or from fatally lacerating an opponent if a fight got too enthusiastic. On the other side of the ring, Alistair was doing the same, his skullcap already in place over his tawny hair, and his shield hefted on his left arm.

“Just so you know,” he told her when they met in the centre of the ring, “I bruise easily.”

Flint-eyed, she squashed her own cap onto her head and fastened the chinstrap. He imagined he caught a faint twitch of humour on her lips before the movement obscured her face, but he couldn’t be sure.

“You both know the rules,” croaked the nervous recruit who had been picked as a referee. “No weapon strikes aimed above the shoulders; no interference from the spectators; the fight ends when one competitor yields, or… or is too injured to fight.” He glanced at Rosslyn and licked his lips. “Hopefully it won’t come to that. Do you both swear to abide by these rules?”

“Yes.”

“I do.”

“Then begin!”

They tapped swords as a formal salute, and stepped back out of range, circling slowly. Alistair brought his shield up before his face, his sword held point-forward at his shoulder in readiness to lunge, while Rosslyn, cautious about his superior size, held hers swept to the side for a better chance at deflection should he close for a strike. Her gaze dropped to the centre of his chest, the better to anticipate his movements; faces, after all, could lie.

Shouting grew into an excited buzz around them, then faded out of hearing, useless.

She struck first, a whirl of blows that sent them both spinning to opposite sides of the ring. Cheers rose from the Highever soldiers, but this initial flurry was just a test of Alistair’s defences, probing for weak points she could exploit. It wouldn’t be easy; his strength foiled her speed and he had the solid bearing of a shieldmaster in training. She had to rotate the hilt in her grip to release the jangle of nerves the impact sent down her arm.

“Get ‘im telt, lass!”

With the second attack, she sliced forward at an angle, faster, cutting crosswise so he was forced to overreach. She caught his sword on the outer edge of her shield and he jumped back as she swung her right arm in a reverse arc that would have disembowelled him had the fight been real. The move seemed ungraceful, but he had left the opening on purpose, to see if she would take it.

“Don’t insult me,” she snapped. “You could at least try to kill me.”

“If I do that, I’ll get executed,” he retorted. Now that his battle-blood was rising, he found himself enjoying being the sole object of her attention, antagonistic though it might be. The fire-hot fury that had consumed her earlier was gone, and in place of her scowl a frown of concentration, and maybe just the faintest hint of a smile. But he had to focus, or the fight would be lost, and his argument along with it.

So he came at her without warning, driving her towards the rail, shield to shield before she could get out of the way, but in an instant the pressure against his shoulder vanished. She sidestepped neatly and turned along the length of his off-side, delivering a swift elbow to his ribs before disengaging to circle again, to whoops and jeers from the spectators. He had not meant to let her do that, and he stumbled, knowing that if she wanted, she could have ended the fight there. Payback for the opening he had given her before. When he looked, he saw a grin pulling at her lips, but it vanished quickly.

They became more serious. The blows they traded were fast and brutal, the two of them evenly matched and equally invested in winning. Soon they were both breathing hard and fighting the itch to dash the sweat from their eyes. Rosslyn kept their engagements brief, making Alistair do the work of closing to a distance where he could use his bigger size to bear down on her, but she had grown up training against her father’s guardsmen, and she had learned how to turn her blade to redirect the force of such blows, to combat reach with flexibility.

She swiped low for his legs and used the distraction to dance away again. Alistair turned and trailed after her, dogged, and doubts began to creep into her mind. All her injuries from the road ached from his unrelenting attacks, which often came over the top of his shield and meant she had to raise her arm to deflect them. She might have expected some leniency from a different opponent, but Alistair wasn’t Gilmore; he respected her skill enough to give her all of his. He saw the way she rolled her left shoulder to ease the strain of her injury from Glenlough, and he noted it only as a weakness to be turned to his advantage.

But he was starting to tire, as well. She saw it in the slight drop of his guard, how he hesitated to close the gap between them. The onlookers had quietened, sensing the match was nearing its end and eager not to miss a moment of it.

“Give ‘er what-for!”

He rushed her. She was done running. Her stance braced to hold her ground, and their shields locked together with a hollow smack, their swords trapped at crossguards in the middle. For an instant they stood close enough to feel the ragged edge in each other’s breath, silver eyes caught on amber, but then Rosslyn dove left with a growl and Alistair stumbled forward. His right arm overextended, exposed between her shield and his own. Her sword was already swinging in a backhanded arc above her head – he could see its path down across his shoulders, a killing blow to the back of the neck – the crowd now at a roar –

He ducked and twisted on his heels. His loose arm dropped and he exploded upwards with a last burst of strength that broke against her shield just as she reached the apex of the Coachman’s Cut. Unbalanced, she was knocked clean off her feet, the sword flying out of her hand as she instinctively reached out to brace against the fall. Alistair tumbled after, and together they hit the ground with a muffled thud that sent a shock of force through Rosslyn’s teeth. Disbelief settled on the crowd with the dust, and those at the back peered over the heads of those in front to see what would happen next.

Alistair stared down impassively, the point of his sword resting flat against Rosslyn’s neck and the weight of his shield heavy on her chest. She had managed to get one elbow underneath her, but she was pinned, caught out of reach of her sword with his bulk pressing her into the dirt. The silence stretched; time was measured in racing heartbeats. Her eyes darted between her blade and the one at her neck, searching for some way to save the situation, to change the odds, to _fight_. Alistair tried very hard to ignore the warmth of her breath on his cheek.

Finally, she sagged, her voice choked and tiny. “I yield.”

“Ser Alistair is victorious!”

At the announcement, Alistair scrambled to his feet, all traces of the merciless warrior gone. He caught a flicker of vulnerability in Rosslyn’s eyes before she rolled gaze away from him to the sword lying inches from her right hand, and he watched as she hesitated, then snatched it from the dirt like it was a snake about to bite.

“Here.”

She grasped the hand he offered to pull her up, her grip strong, her back and entire right side dusted with sawdust. She hardly seemed to notice, and did not look at him as they touched shields to signal the formal end of the bout. Cheers and groans rippled around the ring with the chink of coin, but to him it was muted by his confusion, the feeling that in his victory something had gone terribly wrong.

“My lady?”

“If you’ll excuse me –”

Rosslyn bowed and left, letting the crowd part before her like iron filings before a lodestone. By the time he caught up with her, she had reached the equipment tent and flung her sword on the workbench, half her training gear already unbuckled. At the tramp of his footsteps, her hands stilled on the straps.

“I… didn’t hurt you, did I?” he asked.

“Only my pride,” she joked, but it was unconvincing. “You’re impressive – your fighting skills, I mean.”

Alistair felt heat creep up the back of his neck. “I could say the same. You almost had me a few times there.”

“But not quite.” And there it was again, that flash of hurt smothered as quickly as it emerged. She scowled down at the sword on the workbench. “I apologise for taking up so much of your time – you must have duties to see to.”

He recognised the dismissal for what it was, but sympathy made him hesitate. Now that the anger had drained out of her, away from the crowd, she looked exhausted, leaning against the table as if the responsibility on her shoulders were too much to bear alone.

He had never been very good at keeping his mouth shut.

“You know, I know better than you might think how hard it can be to – to live with a legacy hanging over your head.” He fiddled with a stray thread in his shirt. “I can see why you would want to hold on to anything you can.”

She turned and stared at him for a long time, her expression inscrutable. “Your parents had high expectations for you, then?” she asked eventually.

“I… no.” It was his turn to avoid her gaze. “My mother died when I was small and my, uh, father barely knew I existed.”

She frowned, irked by this information for a reason she could not define. “So who raised you?”

“Dogs,” he said, shrugging.

“Dogs?”

“Yup. Giant, slobbering dogs from the Anderfels, a whole pack of them, in fact. In the winter we’d all sleep in a big pile and play wicked grace for ram chops.” He grinned, and was pleased to see an answering smirk on Rosslyn’s lips.

“I see,” she hummed. “That explains the table manners.”

“Oi!”

“And was it the dogs who taught you swordsmanship?” she asked. “Or, _swordsdogship_ , I suppose.”

“No, that was Duncan.” His smile broadened into something more genuine at the happy memory, and the warmth brightened the honey of his eyes. She had called him impressive, she was joking with him again, she was _funny_. “He’s a Grey Warden, he used to stop by when he was recruiting sometimes. He’d take me out and teach me, first with sticks, because you might not have noticed but I’m terribly clumsy, and then later he’d bring real practice swords with him.”

“He sounds like a good man,” Rosslyn said.

“He is. He’s Commander of the Grey now – or he was, last time I heard anything about him.”

“Hm – you have friends in high places.”

He chuckled. “I suppose I do.”

“I hope…” Her smile faltered. Her fingers danced along the edge of the workbench. “Oh, never mind.”

Concerned by how she turned away from him, Alistair edged closer, stretching out a tentative hand, only to spring backwards when the tent flap whipped aside to reveal Teagan, his cloak awry and his face creased into a disapproving glare.

“Would either of you care to explain what just happened?” he demanded. “Why did I get word from Captain Rothby that a fight had broken out in the lists? Well?”

Rosslyn and Alistair glanced at each other like children caught stealing pastries.

“You’re expected to set an example – there are recruits out there who have barely been with us a week! And now they’ve seen two of their superiors decide to hash out their differences in a glorified brawl.” Teagan rubbed a finger along his jawline. “I expected better of you, Alistair. I thought you had more sense.”

“Yes, my lord. I’m sorry.”

“Teagan, the fault is mine,” Rosslyn interrupted, stepping forward. “I goaded Alistair, and he was honour-bound to respond.”

“With due respect, my lady, if he allowed himself to be goaded by you, then he has yet to learn the lessons I have tried to teach him. Such childish behaviour is a disgrace to your positions, and provoked or not you should both have had the presence of mind to conduct yourselves with a greater amount of decorum. Do you think your father would be proud of your little fit of temper today?”

“It’s a shame he’s not here to be asked his opinion.”

“The soldiers were pleased,” Alistair said hurriedly. “The bout was a boost to morale and it gave the newer recruits a demonstration of the level of skill they might be able to achieve one day.”

Teagan rounded on him. “Do not try to justify this action. I am still Commander-in-Chief of this camp, and that display showed a flagrant disregard for rules put in place for the benefit of all.” He stepped back, suddenly weary. “Lady Rosslyn, I apologise for the comment about your father. I’m sure he would be happy to know you can hold your own against such a skilled opponent. He taught you well.”

Rosslyn swallowed. “Thank you, my lord.”

“I will speak to the quartermaster. Both of you will spend this evening helping the normal rotation clean the practice equipment, since you’re so eager to behave like common soldiery, and maybe that will teach you a lesson about settling arguments with steel.” He turned on his heel before either could muster a protest and marched out into the gathering dusk, the silence left in his wake a palpable thing.

“Well that could have gone worse,” Alistair muttered eventually.

“It could have gone better, too,” Rosslyn replied. “Why didn’t you stand up for yourself when Teagan stormed at you?”

“What else could I do?” he shrugged. “Without him I’m just a stablehand or a farm grunt living hand-to-mouth. He took me in, so to speak.”

“From the dogs?”

Alistair’s head snapped around at the new, probing lilt to her voice, and scowled. “He’s not my father. My father’s dead, and never wanted anything to do with me in the first place.”

She started. “Forgive me – I shouldn’t have pried.”

After that, they lapsed into silence as they finished stripping off their practice leathers and laid them out for cleaning, but Alistair’s mind resounded with the weight of the secret he had never revealed to another living soul. Never before had he even wanted to, and yet in the last few weeks he had caught himself wondering what might happen if he did. On better days, he imagined what it might be like to be raised to princehood, how many people he could help if given the power to do so. Soon enough, however, he would hear Isolde’s tittering laugh ringing in his ears, mocking him for thinking his father’s name would ever outshine his mother’s common blood.

“Alistair? That’s a very thoughtful expression on your face.”

He did his best to smile. “Just trying to work out what I want for dinner.”

She smiled back, remembering their earlier conversation. “It would have to be something filling, to last through all the gruelling hours of work Teagan has in store for us.”

“Maybe not something with cabbage in it, though.”

“I doubt there are many cabbages left for the refectory to get their hands on.”

“And whose fault is that?”

The smile turned into an outright chuckle. It was brief, but he heard it. He watched as she gathered up her gear and placed it back in the racks, wondering what it might be like to make her laugh properly, every day.

“I’ll see you later,” she said, pausing on her way to the door.

Only once she had gone could his thoughts scramble enough sense together to answer, but by then there was nobody to hear but himself. “I look forward to it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've been feeling like crap lately (yaaay mysterious health problems!) and writing is the only thing that cheers me up, especially this story. If you read this chapter and liked it (or any of the other chapters), it would mean a lot if you shard your thoughts in the comments <3


	14. I: The Rose Unfurling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A commotion interrupts an awkward conversation in the armoury, and with enemies threatening on all sides, a decision has to be made.

_Fifteenth day of Drakonis, 9:32 Dragon, Evening_

Cuno groaned in his sleep. He stretched out his limbs with a heavy, contented wheeze before settling more comfortably on the thigh currently serving as his pillow. Rosslyn, cross-legged on the floor and rather uncomfortable under the weight of her dog’s head, paused in her work to give the brindle shoulder an affectionate scratch.

She kept her gaze on the stitching of the vambrace in her hands. The others in the room with her worked at their own tasks, their silence thick and awkward. She didn’t know what to say; the time had long passed for polite introductions, and she had no doubt her position as the army’s commander would stilt any kind of conversation with ordinary soldiers anyway. Besides which, the quiet allowed her to think. She could lose herself in the patter of rain on the roof, the scent of smoke from the fire, and the absent thought that if not for the absence of Oriana’s harp, she could pretend she was back at home, safe behind the thick castle walls with her family alive and well, and her only responsibility looking over the accounts or polishing her sword for practice the next day.

Blinking away the mist in her eyes, she stabbed the awl through the worn leather of the vambrace. Only three more stiches and she could set it aside. Only five more pieces of armour and she could leave and take the burning in her chest with her.

“It’s too quiet in here.”

She all but jumped at the sound of Alistair’s voice, and judging by the nervous glance the other two soldiers shared between them, they found the declaration equally startling.

“Don’t you think it’s too quiet?” he asked her.

“I hadn’t noticed,” she lied.

He snorted. “One of you must know a good story or a bad joke or two. Maybe a raunchy ballad, to break the ice?”

The two soldiers remained silent.

“There’s no need to be so timid, you know,” he told them. “Lady Cousland doesn’t bite. At least, I don’t think she does.”

“Only when I’m baited,” she answered wryly when he turned to her, glad to be drawn out, though she envied his ability to strike up easy conversation.

He grinned. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

“We’re sorry for not talking,” one of the soldiers interrupted. She was a dwarf, dressed in the muted greens and browns of a Redcliffe scout, her chestnut hair pinned in an elaborate braid around her young face. Earlier, she had mentioned her name was Harding. “It’s just that Jim and I wouldn’t know what to say that might be of interest.”

“Anything at all,” Alistair replied brightly. “Consider this a free pass. What do you want to talk about?”

“Well…” Harding glanced nervously at him, and then at Rosslyn, who gave a polite, encouraging nod. “There _is_ something I’ve been wondering. Rumours are we’re going to Denerim –”

“That’s something not best discussed here.”

“Oh, I know my lady, I wasn’t going to ask about that. It’s just there’s been talk and, well… I was wondering if you know the king?”

“The king?” Rosslyn repeated.

“I heard you grew up together,” Harding explained.

“Mum told me once that all nobles know each other,” the soldier, Jim, added helpfully. “Is it true?”

“I suppose… in a fashion,” Rosslyn said, scrambling for an appropriate response. Her hand drifted to the comfort of Cuno’s ruff. The somnolent atmosphere that filled the room moments before scattered before the eager expectation of her audience. Even Alistair had left off the hauberk he was oiling to listen, gazing at her with an unsettling intensity.

“Is he as charming as they say?”

“And what would we do with a king who wasn’t charming?” she asked, to deflect. “In truth, I’m not sure what to tell you. His Majesty hasn’t visited Highever in years, not since he took the throne.” They had been happy times, though, the long days of summer sunshine, where she had run wild through the orchard after her brother, and Cailan – and Nathaniel Howe, whose father had proved a traitor. She remembered the year things changed, about a month before news of Maric’s death reached them, when Cailan had ridden in on a grey charger and kissed her hand with compliments when he greeted her on the castle steps, and she had started hearing phrases like ‘a promising match’ and ‘well-suited’ bandied about by servant and courtier alike without regard for her own thoughts on the matter. She felt heat bloom in her cheeks.

Harding gasped, mistaking her blush. “You were giddy on him!”

“What? No!” Shock knotted Rosslyn’s thoughts; a proper, dignified answer eluded her, her desire to keep her personal life private warring with the instinctive need to explain that the intricacies of court life had more to do with politics than _feelings_ , that until he married Anora and left her safe all she felt towards the king was creeping resentment as the instrument that would one day end her freedom. Her tongue only twisted further when she looked at Alistair – why did she feel the need to look at Alistair at all? – and found she couldn’t read the expression in his eyes. Harding was giggling.

“Such a suggestion is untoward,” she managed eventually, raising her chin. “The king is married, and he _is_ the king.”

“I’m sorry, my lady,” mumbled Harding, sobering at the curt note in human woman’s voice.

Silence fell. Rosslyn’s hand strayed once more to Cuno’s ears, her eyes fixed on her lap, knowing that this time there could be no counter for the awkwardness she had created. Her mother would have tutted – but that thought led along other dark trails she would rather not explore in company.

Jim, however, seemed oblivious to her _faux-pas_. “What about you, Ser?” he asked Alistair, whose attention snapped away from Rosslyn as if reprimanded.

“Me?” He chuckled and rubbed at the bristles on his neck. “King Cailan is definitely _not_ my type, and that would be the least of my worries in that area.”

“No, I meant have you ever met him? Dan was telling me you grew up in the castle in Redcliffe, and Arl Eamon is the king’s uncle. He must have visited at some point.”

“Oh, right.” Alistair’s knuckles went white as he glanced around their circle, and Rosslyn fancied that his eyes lingered on her for a beat before he dropped his gaze again. “No, I’ve never met him.”

She wondered at the reason for the lie, and even more why in all their conversations he had never mentioned where he grew up. It occurred to her that she had never asked.

“Didn’t you ever even see him?” Jim pressed.

“I went to Rainesfere when I was ten,” Alistair replied shortly.

“Not before that?”

“Listen,” he snapped. “Whatever Dan’s been telling you, I was never anything more than a scrawny little orphan kept at Redcliffe because nobody knew what else to do with me. People like _me_ tend not to get invited to rub shoulders with the people who sit at the top end of the table.”

The outburst had the reek of an old wound, bitter enough that it seemed to surprise even Alistair himself. He sighed and shoved a hand backwards through his hair, but when he turned his gaze to Rosslyn, already regretting, she looked away, a sting at the back of her throat. Cuno’s ears swivelled in his sleep.

“Perhaps you could tell us your stories,” she suggested, schooling her face into the mild expression she had been taught to hold in polite conversation. Beneath it, her thoughts whirled. _The people at the top end of the table_. People like her. There were those who disliked the nobility, of course, and she knew of cases where the abuses of power justified that, but to hear such resentment from _him_ … What had he suffered? Why had she never tried to draw him out? Shame crept into her chest thinking of their encounter that morning, when he had lingered on the dais trying to be ignored and she had _imposed_ herself, all because she had wanted to talk to him.

Harding shifted uncomfortably, but Jim was apparently oblivious to the tension crowding the low room, and while Rosslyn brooded he launched into the winding, tangential saga of how he earned his commission as a scout. She made sure to smile and nod in all the right places, as far as she could follow them, and did not answer the prickle of eyes on the back of her neck.

“And then of course I had to tell Rosie I was going off with the army, and we’d just planted the wheat in the north field – or was it barley? The summer before was very wet, so maybe that was the south field, and then –”

“ _Bwwooooorrooooroo!_ ”

Harding pressed her hand over her heart and swore. Cuno stared at the door, stiff-legged, muzzle twitching, completely awake.

“What in the world is the matter?” Rosslyn exclaimed, massaging her shoulder. The dog had sprung up so quickly it had been all but jerked out of the socket. He turned at the sound of her voice, gave her an absent-minded whuffle of a greeting, then turned his attention back to the world beyond. If she strained, Rosslyn thought she could hear it too, a faint commotion of booted feet and slamming doors too frantic for the time of night. With another low bark, Cuno hauled himself across the room, head cocked and hackles raised, before turning to ask with a wag of his stubby tail what was taking her so long to get up.

“You two are to tidy away this equipment and then report to your captains,” she told the two scouts. She unfolded her legs and staggered to the door, ears strained for a clue about what was goingon, cursing how the pins-and-needles throbbed against the bruises she had picked up in the bout earlier. Wynne had pointedly refused to heal them.

“What do you think it is?” Alistair asked, coming up behind her.

She turned only far enough to feel the heat radiating off his body. “Trouble.”

* * *

 

_Howe. It has to be Howe._

Rosslyn kept repeating the words to herself, muttered them as she strode through the barracks, her stride itching to lengthen into a run. Cuno stalked at her side and Alistair followed in her wake, his mouth working with half-formed words. He wanted to apologise – he hadn’t even _thought_ of Rosslyn, sitting only five feet away, when he’d told that scout to mind his own business – but every explanation he considered only sounded offensive, even in his own head. _I didn’t mean to insult you, I forgot you were there – It wasn’t personal – I don’t think of you as a noble._ To every one he imagined a biting rejoinder and a withering stare, and the pile of fuel for his pyre rising steadily higher, and suppressed a groan at his stupidity.

Rain sputtered in the torches as they crossed the yard to the keep, passing servants who, seeing the set of Rosslyn’s jaw, hastily bowed out of their way; there were too many of them for the late hour, and too many lights were beginning to flicker in windows to hope that whatever was happening was a false alarm. Their pace did not lessen until they reached the heavy doors of the war room, and by then it was too late for Alistair to say anything at all. He slinked to his place beside Teagan, who nodded but said nothing as the room continued to fill.

The war room was far more crowded than he had ever seen it. The banns were present, of course, but so were at least half a dozen captains of horse, bow, and infantry, as well as the quartermaster and the hooded figure who saw to the ravens. Alistair noticed Rosslyn greeted the Knight-Captain of their contingent of Templars warmly, smiling as she clasped his hands in both of hers, before she turned to a bearded dwarf he had never seen before.

“Ah, my lady, such a pleasure to see you again!” The dwarf wrung his hands in blessing. “Truly, an honour.”

“I remember you, Bodahn,” she said, after a moment. “I trust your boy is doing well?”

“She remembers!” Bodahn gushed. “My Sandal is quite well, thanks to your timely rescue, which is of course –”

“This dwarf says he has information for us.” The interruption came from Bann Franderel.

“Yes indeed, my lady Cousland, as I was just telling these fine gentlemen here,” Bodahn said. He either missed Franderel’s sneer or he ignored it. “I was making my way along the road, minding my own business as you might expect, when I crested a rise and what should I see? Why, a whole army bearing the sigil of Amaranthine, pouring out of Highever and heading this way.”

“How many?” she asked.

“I counted, of course,” came the reply. “Knowing you would want to know, and after you saved me and my boy from those brigands, it was the least I could do. The arl has fifteen hundred infantry, two hundred archers, and a hundred cavalry interspersed with war dogs – from what I could see – and in addition he has three apostates serving as his own personal guard.”

Bann Auldubard scoffed. “Amaranthine has no such force. How could he field so many soldiers?”

“By sacking my father’s coffers to pay for them,” Rosslyn snarled through clenched teeth. Alistair saw her reach for Cuno. “That bastard son of a swine is bleeding Highever dry.”

“It doesn’t matter how he’s doing it, that many would outnumber us almost two to one,” Bann Loren said fearfully.

“And if they are mercenaries as you suggest, my lady,” added Bann Telmen, “their numbers will count for more against our half-trained militia. We must choose our action wisely.”

Next to Alistair, Teagan coughed. “Clearly he intends to hit us hard and hope we break with the impact. Messere, your information has been invaluable to us,” he said to Bodahn. “If you are willing, the sergeant here will see to it you are fed and resupplied, and compensated for your information.”

The dwarf simpered. “My lord, you are _too_ kind. There is no compensation necessary, however, I assure you. At least, not beyond the pleasure of knowing I assisted the forces of good King Cailan and repaid the debt I owe to a most superb lady.” But he allowed himself to be led away nonetheless, still calling praises and good wishes down on everyone present until his voice faded along the corridor.

Rosslyn sighed, her head bent over the war table, every eye trained on her. The size and position of Howe’s army had already been marked on the map before they arrived, an ordered array of wood blocks stained black parading towards the red pieces clustered on the border between Highever and West Hill, and Alistair could almost hear the tramping of armoured boots growing closer with every second. The question was how to answer the threat.

“Does anyone have anything to say?” she asked the room at large.

“Only that this is your fault,” Franderel snapped, his usual veneer of politeness gone. “If you hadn’t been so damned intent on goading Howe –”

“Howe needs us dealt with before he’s free to take Denerim,” Teagan interrupted, before Rosslyn could do much more than clench her fist on the table. “Such would be the case no matter Lady Rosslyn’s actions. If not for her efforts, we might have been facing a force twice this size. Besides which,” he added pointedly, “we cannot change what’s done. We need to decide what to do next, or nothing we _have_ done will matter.”

There were murmured agreements from around the room.

“Is there still enough time to cut along the Imperial Highway and reach Denerim?” Loren asked.

The Templar Knight-Captain – Irminric? – shook his head as he examined the map. “Not in any kind of order, and we’d leave ourselves open on the road.”

“And that’s without civilians to consider,” Ser Gideon added from Rosslyn’s side.

“So this means – what?”

“It means we make a stand.” Rosslyn glanced around the circle of officers and nobles. “We plant our feet and give the refugees a chance to get away. And then, once we’ve taken back Highever, we can move towards Denerim, or catch Loghain in a pincer if he’s foolish enough to try and beat us to the city.”

“And how are we to do that?” Franderel asked, and his face looked more weasel-like than ever. “If your friend the dwarf can be trusted, we are greatly outnumbered. Have you factored this into your hot-headed desire to prove yourself?”

Her eyes narrowed, but she refused to be drawn out this time, not in front of so many people. “If numbers were all it took to win a battle, none would ever be fought.” As she spoke, she squared her shoulders, drawing up to her full height so that she towered over Franderel. At her side, Cuno growled deep in his chest. “We _can_ do this.”

The Bann of West Hill remained unbowed. “And if we don’t, my lady, who will defend the king?” he asked.

“The answer seems pretty obvious to me.”

Alistair froze. He hadn’t meant to speak loudly enough to be heard, and yet every eye in the room turned to him, lancing him with varying degrees of hostility.

“Have you something to say, boy?” asked Bann Telmen.

“I…” Alistair’s gaze flicked around the circle, flushing crimson as he fiddled with the end of his sleeve, his lips chewing together as if that might somehow recall the words he had spoken, to get everyone to stop looking at him. Only Teagan regarded at him with any encouragement – Rosslyn’s expression was patient, but inscrutable.

“Go on,” she said.

Heartened, Alistair stepped up to the war table and cleared his throat. “Well – uh – it seems to me that you’re – the only reason there’s an argument, I mean, is because nobody can decide when’s best to go to Denerim. I was thinking, what if we didn’t need to go to Denerim at all? As Ross– as Lady Cousland says, if we go there, we’ll be cut off from any allies we might have left, and Loghain will be able to pick them off one by one until we’re fish in a barrel.” He swallowed and stood a little straighter, feeling a little better since the ground had yet to open up and swallow him.

“What’s your idea?” Knight-Captain Irminric asked, not unkindly.

“Well, we don’t need to defend Denerim if the king isn’t _in_ Denerim,” Alistair pointed out. “What if we got him to come here? Or go to Redcliffe?”

The knight-captain nodded thoughtfully. “If it can be done in secret,” he suggested, “then all the better. Loghain might march halfway to the capital before realising he’s wasting his time.”

Loren shook his head. “And what if Loghain decides to take Denerim anyway? Will we just sit by and become rebels in our own lands?”

“Would you rather find a noose around your neck if we lose the king and Loghain finds it prudent to try all of us for treason?” Rosslyn retorted, before turning to Teagan, who was watching Alistair with something akin to pride curling the corners of his mouth. “My lord, you know King Cailan best. Which option would he choose?”

Teagan laughed. “His Majesty is already champing at the bit to be let out into the field, to protect his people himself. I think Ser Alistair has provided the perfect excuse.”

“It’s too risky,” Loren insisted. “To expose the king in such a manner, with no heir to take his place…”

“If we move quickly, we wouldn’t expose him at all,” Rosslyn interrupted. “The weather pins Loghain in the south, and we will distract Howe with the battle he so obviously wants from us. And if we do lose,” she added ruefully, “at least my lord Franderel’s concerns about His Majesty’s defences will be laid to rest.”

After that, opposition to the idea crumbled. The ravenmaster slipped out to send a message to Cailan, urging him to leave Denerim with all possible haste. Meanwhile, Rosslyn and her advisors devised their retreat; first, the refugees, sent ahead with an escort and the Cousland seal to ensure their protection through Rothsbridge and west beyond Lakehead into the uncontested safety of the White River Bannorn. Following them, the army would march with its supplies, organised in a similar rotation to the one Rosslyn had used when escaping Glenlough. With only three days at best, every extra hour they could gain was precious. All that remained was to find a field of battle Howe could not afford to refuse.

“What about here?” Gideon offered, stabbing a finger at the map. “The bugger will want to go for the refugees – the easy target – but here, he couldn’t pass us without risking his back end, and the terrain would let us funnel things how we’d want. He’d have to fight us.”

“Oh, he’ll fight us,” Rosslyn said mildly. “He wants to put my head on a spike next to my father’s. The question is how best to exploit that ambition.”

And so they planned. Irminric made suggestions for how best to use their mages, and Gideon for how to defend against their enemy’s superior numbers. Even Franderel and the other banns had sound input, and though they were still uncomfortably formal, the crisis at hand at least drained them of their sarcasm. Alistair felt rather superfluous to requirements and stood quietly by Teagan’s side, a glorified scratching post for the dog while he waited for the proceedings to come to a close.

After two hours, Teagan finally declared they could do no more and, yawning, dismissed everyone to get some sleep while they could – they would have to move before sunrise if they were to stay ahead of the enemy. As the lords filed out, Alistair sidled out of the way of the door, still hoping for a chance to apologise after everyone else left. Rosslyn was once again talking to Irminric, who slipped her a letter that she quickly tucked away with a smile. After what seemed like an age, they finally parted, and the room was empty save for Alistair, Rosslyn, and her dog.

“I didn’t know you knew the knight-captain,” Alistair blurted.

“We’re cousins,” she replied, startled. “His sister is the Bann of Waking Sea, my best friend.”

“Oh.” Alistair ruffled a hand through his hair, his cheeks darkening again as he tried to ignore the little surge of relief the words gave him.

“I’m glad you stayed, actually. I wanted to thank you.”

“ _Thank_ me?”

She nodded. “For speaking up. It’s a good idea, getting Cailan out of harm’s way, and it’ll probably work, so… thank you.”

“I _hope_ it works – not just because otherwise we’ll most likely all die,” he replied, tucking his arms behind his back to keep the distance that had somehow closed between them. “And… I’m glad I could help.”

“If you have any more ideas, don’t be afraid to share them.” The corner of her mouth lifted in her lopsided smirk. “But perhaps, next time, you won’t feel the need to blush _quite_ so much.”

“I – um – of course,” he managed. Now was the time to apologise. _Right now. Do it._ The words clotted in his mouth, itching like the heat on the back of his neck until the moment passed and she turned away from his silence, back towards the war table.

“I don’t wish to keep you from your bed,” she said. “I still have some things to take care of.”

It was a dismissal, though a polite one. Alistair hesitated, fighting against the authority that compelled him to leave, but the candles were starting to gutter and with a jolt he realised how inappropriate it would be for him to linger with her, alone and so late at night. She had enough to deal with without the spread of rumours adding to it.

“Of course, my lady,” he replied, bowing. “I… Sleep well.”

Only the dog watched him go.

* * *

 

Far removed from the camp at Deerswall, King Cailan read the ravenmaster's missive by the light of a candle, still in the loose shirt he had thrown on to preserve his dignity when he was woken by insistent knocking on his chamber door. The message was short, hasty despite the neatness of the handwriting.

“You’ve read this, Uncle?” he asked Eamon, who leaned on the mantelpiece.

“I have,” came the reply. “What this Cousland girl proposes is a gamble.”

“She’s backed by Teagan, and I know him to have good sense,” he mused. “Rosslyn Cousland – I barely remember what she looks like. No doubt she’s grown.”

“What shall we do, Nephew?”

Cailan glanced down at the letter again, and his heart beat faster. Here was his chance, at last, to do more than sit behind walls, kept safe like a child. He was the king, and wasn’t it his right to fight for glory, honour, and the love of the people? He would follow the example of his royal ancestors, winning battles and inspiring his subjects, and when, as he imagined, he returned to the palace with Loghain put in his proper place, he would be seen as a king in his own right, rather than as a crude replacement for his father. It was perfect.

“Summon my captain of the royal guard, and my squire,” he ordered. “We must leave before the sun rises.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts on Alistair and Rosslyn's plan? Speculation on what will happen next? I'd love to hear what you think!


	15. I: West Roth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After weeks of trying to hold her people together, Rosslyn finally meets Howe on the field of battle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: canon-typical violence, battle scenes, and gore throughout; animal cruelty in the first two paragraphs
> 
> So we come to it, Rosslyn vs Howe - Highever vs Amaranthine. Who will prevail? as you can see, I put the rating up, both for what's in this chapter and for what is to come in the future. We're getting further down the nug hole here, chaps!

_Seventeenth day of Drakonis, 9:32 Dragon_

Sat atop her horse, Rosslyn watched the battle unfold with anxious intensity. She was hidden in the trees along with her house guard and a unit of mounted templars, waiting for the right moment to spring her trap. Across the river, the dust of the first skirmishes had settled, and the main force of the two armies slogged it out, shield-to-shield in the afternoon sun.

They had chosen their field well, on a flat plain tucked into a meander of the West Roth River so that their enemy couldn’t use his superior numbers to outflank them. Perceiving them trapped against the spated river, Howe had sent his cavalry thundering down the slope, with the war dogs baying and the troopers’ blades flashing, in the hopes of panicking Highever’s infantry into a rout. But that morning, runners had gone out beyond the battle lines and scattered a cloud of deadly-sharp caltrops just where the ground began to level out, and at full gallop the charge had never stood a chance. With a terrible noise of horses and dogs, Howe’s cavalry had fallen apart before it could even reach its target, a wall of muscle and steel that writhed and kicked and struggled, impaled on barbed iron spikes. Troopers had shrieked as their mounts crushed them. It had been horrifying, a tragic waste, but war was war and in one stroke Howe had been robbed of his swift victory, his army had been hobbled, and his soldiers had been made witness to the ruthlessness of Highever’s commander.

Even so, Rosslyn had been glad when Teagan ordered the archers to loose a volley into the line and put an end to the screaming.

Howe had learned caution after that. What remained of his cavalry had retreated, his pet apostates had cracked and frozen the ground to make the caltrops useless, and with a steady beating of swords on shields, the massive bulk of his infantry had advanced stolidly down the hill.

“Much good may it do you,” Rosslyn murmured now with a vicious grin. “There I am, you mongrel. Go and get me.”

She watched as Morrence, dressed in as much of Rosslyn’s armour as would fit on her smaller, slighter frame, wheeled Highever’s cavalry across the field like a flock of starlings, with Cuno at her side. They danced just out of Howe’s reach, strafing along the ranks of pike-defended archers and then propping away before the remains of the enemy cavalry could retaliate. The brow of the falcon helm flashed in the sun, drawing attention away from the almost too-easy advance of his infantry. It wouldn’t be long now. Lasan stamped an impatient hoof.

Down in the melee, the house standards of Highever’s allies stood out like butterflies against the dullness of leather and dust – the Storm Crow of West Hill, Loren’s Sunburst, and in the centre, the Tower and Stars of Rainesfere next to her own Laurels. Alistair was down there somewhere, holding the line of the shield wall.  A prick of worry needled Rosslyn’s gut before she could push it away, remembering when she had last seen him, when he had sought her out by the picket lines to deliver Teagan’s final report before Howe’s troops crested the hill. Most of her guards had been mounted already, waiting only for her to lead them into the woods beyond the camp.

“Are you set?” she had asked as she waved him over.

“Everything’s ready,” he answered. “We’ll stick to the plan, don’t worry. We know what we’re doing, and all we can do now is wait.”

She nodded, glancing over her milling troops. “I’ve never been very good at that.”

“The trick is to let your mind go blank and avoid thinking about anything at all,” he replied, with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Easier for some than others, I would say.” Banter she could do. It added distance to the churn of her stomach, knowing that she wasn’t just leading a skirmish, but commanding an entire force that was relying on her to see them safe.

“Was that an insinuation about my mental capacity?”

She gasped. “Such a suggestion is unwarranted slander.” The effort was too much. She had to steady her breath. “You’ll be in the thick of it – they’ll come straight for you,” she said.

“If you’re not careful, my lady, that noble façade of yours will crack and everyone will find out you _do_ care.” But the tease fell flat and Alistair rubbed a hand through his hair, so it stuck up at odd angles.

She fought the urge to reach out and smooth it down. “Decent sparring partners are difficult to find these days.”

“Is that so?” His gaze flicked down to the Cousland sword belted to her waist, a frown pulling at the corners of his mouth. “You promised.”

Her fingers closed over the pommel. “I remember, but… Howe’s out there. This is my chance to –” She stumbled. Howe needed to die by her father’s sword, and _she_ needed to be the one to do it, but explaining why either of those things mattered took more effort than she had when confronted by the hurt shining in his eyes. “My family deserves justice.”

Alistair’s scowl deepened. “I see.”

“I’m sorry.”

“If you were that sorry, you wouldn’t be doing it,” he snapped.

“Believe what you want.” She made to step away – it was a waste of time to try and make him understand, she should have known he wouldn’t – but he blocked her path.

“So that’s it, is it?” he growled. He took a step forward, looming in his coat of splintmail. “This is how the valiant Falcon of Highever keeps her word? The darling of the people, so desperate to show what she’s worth and too proud to use a common sword, even if it’s likely to get her killed. Is that what you want? Will it be worth having Howe’s head when your guts are spilling over the grass? You know it won’t bring them back!”

He blinked, then, mouth agape as if to catch back all the words he had not meant to say, but she had already marched past him towards where Lasan waited in the hands of a groom. After a final check that her horse’s tack was sitting properly, she mounted and gathered the reins, taking care to steady her temper.

“You’d best get back to your troops, Ser,” she said, when Alistair remained unmoving.

He shook his head. “It’s not worth your life, Rosslyn.” The look on his face…

“Gods go with you.”

And she had turned and ridden away, in too high a temper to appreciate that she might never see him again.

She couldn’t afford to think about that now. Howe’s infantry was beginning to spill around the edges of her own. The weight of superior numbers threatened to envelop the Laurels entirely, and with nowhere to run, it would only be a matter of time before they succeeded, but the scent of victory had drawn them far enough away from Howe to make them vulnerable. It was the moment she had been waiting for.

“Send the message,” she said to the runner waiting at Lasan’s shoulder. The young man saluted crisply and darted down the bank to where a team of carpenters and mages waited with ice spells and a drawbridge made of pallets and spare logs. Rosslyn watched him go, choosing to focus on that rather than the thrill of fury coiling in her stomach.

“Are you ready, Gideon?” she asked her commander.

“Right behind you, lass,” he replied, his white teeth flashing against his dark skin. “Wouldn’t miss this.”

“We’re all with you,” Irminric added from her other side. He and the two templars riding with him would be her defence against Howe’s apostates, while she went for the man himself.

Rosslyn laughed. “In that case, it’s time for some Bear-baiting.” She stood in the stirrups and turned to the troopers behind her. “Make ready! You’ve all waited for this; you all know what’s been taken from you! I promised you vengeance, now go down there and take it!” She drew her sword high, the weight of it a comfort in her hand. Two hundred blades flashed in answer, drawn with a wave of whoops and wordless shouts that drowned out the noise of battle below, and with a feral grin she gave the signal to advance.

Her cavalry poured down the hill. They clattered over the ice-anchored bridge at a trot, and as they climbed the other side, Rosslyn stood high in the stirrups, a piercing yell on her lips, a shriek like her epithet. Lasan whinnied a challenge, echoed by the other horses as the soldiers echoed her. They crested the bank at a ground-shattering charge, a wall of sound and steel appearing out of nowhere with the Laurels blazing as they split into two horns to smash the enemy left and right. Rosslyn saw the line of Amaranthine infantry pause in confusion – Morrence swept down on them, the first Falcon on the field – she felt the ripple of uncertainty, and when the spearpoint of her attack broke into their flank, it crumpled like wet paper.

The smack of impact jarred up her arm; momentum alone carried her through the first stunned ranks of the enemy. Men fell screaming under the flash of her blade, under Lasan’s hooves and Iriminric’s shield. She lost track of things, her head full of noise, her throat already hoarse from shouting and her eyes blinded by the westering sun. Howe’s soldiers tried to run, but the mages sent immolations over their heads, creating a line of roaring flame that pinned and panicked those it did not consume.

In seconds the balance of the fight shifted, and the defensive bend of the river became a killing field. Surrounded on all sides, with magic raining from above, the Amaranthine army was pushed towards the river as Highever’s ranks parted and reformed to block their enemy’s escape, with the cavalry sowing chaos enough to keep them from forming a defence, and the day began to turn. Heartbeats stretched. Rosslyn sank into herself, detached from the slaughter, the faces of those she struck down blurring as each next one rose to take the place of the one before, the one thought in her mind the drive to press out of the melee, north, to the hill where her family’s murderer sat smug under the fluttering orange and white of the Bear.

“House guard to me!” she yelled when she finally found an opening. She rode Lasan through the last line and saw a flash of blue and knew the Laurels followed her. Others stayed to corral the enemy but as she flew past, her soldiers cheered in salute and hurried to plug the space she left in her wake. Howe was turning, fleeing from the unexpected change in fortune, but the hounds bayed at her heels and her horse was a spark of fire, and she herself was the Falcon, who dived out of the sun and swept in death with her wings, and she would not suffer the traitor to live.

They were gaining.

“Ware, riders!”

The cry came from her right, and she looked, puzzled, drawing in Lasan’s speed to follow the trooper’s pointing finger to the bottom of the hill behind her. What she saw made her blood run cold.

A wedge of heavy horse, charging without banner along the river’s edge, the troopers’ blades high as they bellowed like bulls, straight for the exposed back of her infantry. A secret reserve? She couldn’t think.

“My lady!”

She saw Howe’s banner disappear over the hill, the coward running to save himself, taking her vengeance with him.

“Lady Rosslyn, what do we do?”

She saw her soldiers turn, saw their courage break even as Morrence dragged her wing out of the melee to meet the new threat.

“ _Which way, my lady_?”

The goal was Howe. Without him, there would be no need for rebellion in the North. Without him, Highever could be free. There could be no second chance. If she lost him now, he would sit in comfort and let her break herself against her own walls and laugh as she spent her rage and her blood to tear him down. And yet to chase him down would be to abandon those who had laid their lives on her trust, to break the promise she had made them just like she had broken the promise made on her family’s sword.

Her army, or her home?

“My lady…?”

 _I’m sorry, Father._ She squeezed her eyes shut and kicked Lasan into a gallop.

* * *

 

The ground trembled as Alistair braced against the oncoming cavalry. He shouted for the ragged shield wall to hold. They had found spears from somewhere, and the line in front of him dug them into the ground, the points levelled straight for the horses’ hearts. It wouldn’t be enough. The Amaranthine infantry clawed at the lines behind him, spurred by the appearance of allies and the panic it had caused among Highever’s ranks. Loren’s banner had fallen, the Templars were being overwhelmed, and Alistair himself had watched Teagan go down under a mace before he managed to stem the rout and rally the line. He didn’t know if his uncle still lived, didn’t have the spare energy to find out. He thought back to his only other battle, all the waiting he had done under the winter-sleeping pine trees, and after, when he had laughed until he choked to find himself still alive. There would be no survival this time, he knew; the only question was how long his strength would last. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the falcon helm flash in the sun as Captain Morrence led the Highever cavalry on a bloody path to rescue the mages, and readjusted his shield on his arm.

“Hold steady,” he growled at the soldiers next to him. “We can hold them.”

He breathed. The horses came on. Eight strides – five. At least Rosslyn made it away. At least she was safe.

And then, three strides out from the clash, a banner unfurled and blazed the royal War Dogs of Ferelden, and the cavalry propped and swung away, flowing around the Highever infantry like a river around a rock. In the confusion, Howe’s mercenaries pressed their advantage. The line broke. The cavalry washed against the melee without a clear target and was deflected for another pass, and between on heartbeat and the next Alistair lost track of the banner as the ordered fighting devolved into a writhing sea of steel.

His feet slipped in the mud. He smashed his shield into someone’s face, recognising only the orange and white of the Bear before whirling to the rescue of a boy with the Laurels on his surcoat. His breath sawed through his lungs but he kept pushing, kept slashing at anything that came within range of him, half-blind with other people’s blood.

“To me!” he shouted, gasping. “To the Laurels!”

Finally, the defensive line was reined into some sort of order, but a flurry of arrows hissed overhead and the man beside him was too slow to raise his shield. Alistair cursed. There seemed no end to the Amaranthine soldiers. The royal cavalry penned them in, driving them onto the battered and wavering shield wall. In battle with fresh soldiers, the tactic might have worked, but right now it was only going to get more people killed.

“Look, over there!”

The cheer went up and Alistair turned despite his better instincts. It was Rosslyn. She surged through the enemy like a scythe through summer hay, cutting off the advance of the Amaranthine infantry with a wall of swords and striking hooves. The pressure on the defensive line eased. They pushed forward, gathered up the wounded. Someone must have recognised her, or her horse, because the enemy swarmed towards her with renewed vigour, but by then she was already clear of the melee and arcing around to meet it again.

Movement distracted him from the sight and he flinched as a broad-headed axe swiped for his head. He raised his shield just in time, cursing himself for forgetting the first rule of combat, but the axe caught it at a bad angle and with a deep _crack_ pain shot through his arm into his shoulder. He managed to parry the next blow and staggered backwards, but his feet slipped again. Exhaustion took him to his knees. His opponent prowled forwards, a giant in armour that was hard-used but well-maintained, with a neatly trimmed moustache beneath his helmet. Alistair supposed it must be the shock that was letting him see such fine details. He bared his teeth and brought his sword in close. The axe came swinging for his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought it was about time you guys got a cliffhanger. Will Alistair survive? Will Howe get his comeuppance? What's the deal with the surprise cavalry on the field? Let me know what you think!


	16. II: The Carrion Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the battle over, Rosslyn must count the cost - and there's no word of Alistair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to wait to post this for Alistair Appreciation Week on tumblr. For reasons that will become apparent, it fits quite well into the 'hurt and healing' theme of Day 3.
> 
> Art in this chapter was a commission done by the oustandingly talented junie-junette. Seriously, her art is even better than what I had in my head.

“My lady, please. Reconsider.”

“I said, bring me another horse!”

Rosslyn turned back to inspect Lasan’s hoof and the stone wedged in his shoe. He jerked when the hoof-pick hooked under one corner of it, but the trooper at his head kept a grip on the bridle, and she forced herself to be calm despite her awareness of every moment slipping by. The dogs were out in the dark, trailing for a scent now hours old, their eyes glowing orange where they looked up towards the western edge of the sky. The light was fading. Soon, they would only be able to see by torches, and then Howe – her vengeance – would be truly lost to her, and every life sacrificed on the battlefield would mean nothing. The evening brought a breeze that chilled the sweat on her forehead and seeped into her bones, uncaring.

Finally, she pried the stone free. They had been at full gallop when Lasan came up lame, every trooper still able to wield a sword behind them, and even the few strides he had taken to slow to a halt had been enough to bruise the soft sole of the horse’s foot. It would need treatment, or else an abscess might form, and she couldn’t ride him back or risk making the injury worse.

“And that’d be the end of you,” she said quietly to him, letting go of the hoof so she could pat him on the neck.

Her hand came away wet with blood and lather, shining black in the torchlight. The other horses were in similar shape, blowing hard and trembling with fatigue, slow targets for anyone waiting to ambush them on the road ahead, especially with riders injured and glazed from battle. At the centre of the ring of torches, Irminric watched her grimly, waiting for orders as she glared down the road. It was truly dark now.

“My lady?”

She gritted her teeth. “Recall the dogs.”

With one last look over her shoulder, she mounted the spare horse led over to her, and turned to lead the way back to the camp. Resistance dragged at her limbs like cold water, sound fell away, her head felt thick and heavy, and only the flickering lights ahead kept her path in the right direction.

As the battlefield neared, she fought the urge to gag on the smell. Soldiers picked their way through the bodies, first the Swords of Mercy looking for any last survivors, and after them the salvagers, squabbling with the crows as they searched for weapons or armour no longer needed by their owners. Some had presence of mind enough to pause in their grisly work and salute as the cavalry rode past, but Rosslyn kept her eyes forward, not daring to turn in case she found one of the endless corpse with a face she recognised.

A waste. She wondered if her parents had ever felt so hollow after a battle, if they had mourned for men whose names they would never know. _Lady carry you on soft wings to more peaceful lives than the ones you left_ , she thought, and rode on _._

Her horse shied slightly on the ice-and-wood bridge constructed over the river, but she settled it with a slight dig of her heels, distracted. There was the royal banner of the War Dog that had led the disastrous charge into the enemy’s rear, flying over a cluster of unfamiliar pavilions set in the middle of the camp. They blazed with merry light, servants buzzing around the tent flaps like moths, while all around the air was rank with the stench of blood and churned earth.

She spotted Franderel emerging from the closest one, as well-preened as ever, and her patience snapped. With a grunted order to her standard bearer, she swung off her horse, exhaustion driven away by the anger swelling in her chest. He started when she came hulking out of the dark towards him, but he recovered quickly.

“Ah, my lady, there you are, we were just starting to wonder –”

“Where is he?”

“What?”

She yanked off her helmet, teeth bared. “Do not test me, Franderel. That pestilential, nug-humping son of a pig nearly cost us the battle. Now _where is he_?”

“Now, my lady,” the Bann of West Hill replied smoothly, “I hardly call that civilised language. Perhaps you should calm down, before –”

“Half of my men are dead!” she shouted, flinging her arm out towards the dark. “The ground we had is lost and Howe has disappeared, all thanks to whichever fool it is decided to ignore the rules of engagement and charge blind into my ambush.” She leaned closer. Franderel flinched backwards. “Now you, my lord, will get out of my way or I swear by the breath of Winter that I will knock you down.”

“Ho, what’s this, another battle already?”

The new voice was light, jovial, completely out of place. Rosslyn snapped to face the newcomer, bristling, but stuttered to a dumb halt when she caught sight of the man’s golden armour and the War Dogs fluttering as he emerged from his pavilion. She dropped to one knee, mind racing.

“Your Majesty, I…” The apology died in her throat as she chanced a look upwards at the king. For a second, she could have sworn… She shook herself out of the fantasy, her cheeks itching red with embarrassment. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, I didn’t know it was you.”

“Oh, now none of that,” Cailan replied, offering her a hand to her feet. “We’re old friends, after all.” He smiled. “Now then, would you care to accompany me? We shall have to get you cleaned up, and fed, and maybe rested a bit – Bann Franderel, are accommodations prepared for our wayward Teyrna of Highever?”

“I believe so, Your Majesty,” came the clipped reply.

“Excellent. Perhaps you could find us some food, then – maybe a little wine?”

Franderel bowed. “It will be done.”

“I won’t rest yet, Your Majesty,” Rosslyn interrupted. “There is still a lot to be done.”

“Of course. This way.”

He tucked her arm into the crook of his elbow and Rosslyn allowed herself to be led towards the pavilion, fighting against her confusion at finding Cailan _not in Redcliffe_ , and also against the rage eating at her like acid but which now had nowhere to go. To show anger towards the king went against every lesson in protocol she had ever learnt, especially knowing she needed his support to retake the North. Besides which, whatever remained of the army was still depending on her for leadership, and she had precious little energy to spare on anything so personal as a tantrum.

“When I heard about your family, I could hardly believe it,” Cailan told her quietly. “I’m sorry. Howe’s treachery will be redressed; you have my word. Whatever is in my power to give.”

Rosslyn suppressed the urge to grind her teeth. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

A servant stood just within the pavilion’s entrance with a pitcher of water and a clean towel draped over his arm. Cailan left her for a moment of privacy, for which she was grateful. The water, cold enough to sting, turned murky almost as soon as she dipped her hands below the surface, but a moment of scrubbing was enough to get rid of the worst of the gore, and a quick swipe of the towel across the back of her neck left her feeling remarkably refreshed.

Dismissing the servant with a gesture, she made her way through to where Cailan’s men had set up a trestle table with maps and early reports of the battle. Arl Eamon was there, still in armour and looking worse for wear with puffy eyes and deep wrinkles trailing into the edges of his beard. He bowed to her, as did Auldubard and Loren, who stood a little further back, unsure of themselves among such lofty company.

“Teagan?” Rosslyn asked.

“Badly injured, but alive,” Eamon answered in a gruff voice. “His troops took the worst of the final assault – it seems they plugged the gap so that the rest could get a better defensive line. My brother’s right-hand saw to that, I’m told.”

“Ser Alistair?” her heart jumped against her ribs, and again when she realised how her outburst must have seemed. She couldn’t afford to be distracted, not now, but the things she had said to him... the memory left a yawning darkness that made her fingers shake. “Is he alive?”

Eamon shrugged. “The messenger didn’t say.”

“I see.” Her mouth was dry. “What about Bann Telmen?”

“I saw him fall myself, my lady,” Auldubard replied. “There was nothing I could do.”

Rosslyn was grateful when Eamon took charge then. Casualty reports trickled in with inventories of items recovered from the field, names passed through the moments like sand through a glass – Morrence had survived, and Gideon, as well as most of Teagan’s captains, with only minor injuries. It soon became apparent, however, that crippled as it was, the army would have to make the best of fortifying its position instead of finding somewhere safer to rest its soldiers.

“At least until the mages can stabilise the most badly injured,” Eamon added. “The fact that we lost so many of them is unfortunate.”

“Ser Alistair’s defence made sure we didn’t lose more, my lord,” Audubard told him. “He’s the one who ordered the flank to focus on protecting them until Captain Morrence’s cavalry could intervene.”

“Did he now?” Cailan asked with an idle stroke of his beard. “This young man seems to have made an impression on all of you. What do you think, Uncle? I will have to meet him.”

Rosslyn frowned down at the table, rankled by the careless amusement in the king’s voice. “Our first decision is what to do next,” she said. “I recommend sending scouts as soon as possible along the Imperial Highway here –” she stabbed at the map – “And here. We can’t begin planning a counter-action until we know where our enemy is and how much strength he has left.”

Eamon nodded his approval. “Agreed. However, I’m afraid Arl Howe has most likely retreated to Deerswall. We sent outriders in that direction earlier today and they reported seeing Amaranthine troops digging ditches around the palisade.”

Her fists clenched. Of course Deerswall had been taken from them. Howe was opportunistic, and even with all the traps they had laid, and the garrison left to guard it, its position overlooking the road would have been too tempting to resist. They should have burned it to the ground instead.

“Lady Rosslyn?”

She jumped. Someone had asked her a question about supplies. “I – yes. We have rations enough for tonight. Requisition parties can be sent out in the morning.”

“Perhaps it’s best to leave things as they are then,” Cailan said. “We can do little more now in any case. With a bit of rest and some decent food in us, I’m sure we’ll have a brighter outlook.” He gave a subtle wave to one of the servants, and within seconds the table was being cleared of maps to make way for plates of meat pies, bread, cheese, and a jug of heated wine. “Come, my Lady Cousland, will you join us?”

Rosslyn shook her head, her mind already wandering. “Thank you, Your Majesty, but if you wouldn’t mind, I think I’d rather like to go to bed.”

“Of course,” he replied, covering his disappointment with a beaming smile. “I’m told you were up before the sun this morning, so I wouldn’t dream of keeping you. Lieutenant Mhairi,” he added, “show Teyrna Rosslyn to her quarters, if you would.”

A short, round-faced woman stepped out of the shadows and bowed crisply. “Yes, Your Majesty. This way, Your Ladyship.”

The lieutenant led the way through the camp in silence, her arms held stiffly behind her back. Rosslyn, too tired to make conversation, allowed her the mask of professionalism.

“Is there anything you require, You Ladyship?” Mhairi asked when they reached a pavilion with the standard of the Laurels dug into the earth by the entrance. “Should I call a servant for you?”

“No, thank you. I can manage well enough.”

Mhairi started to say something in reply, but was cut off when a brindle mass of fur streaked out of the pavilion’s entrance and all but knocked her over. Rosslyn barely had time to react before Cuno was rearing against her chest in a mad scramble of licks and high, whistled whines, doing his best despite the frantic wag of his rear end to climb into her arms like he had when he had been a puppy and considerably less heavy.

“I guess that means he’s pleased to see you,” Mhairi said.

Rosslyn barely heard her. She had to brace against her dog’s bulk to avoid sinking into the mud, but she held onto him tight and scratched her fingers along his shoulders and buried her face into his ruff even though it was matted with gore, until sense reasserted itself and the wriggling turned into a polite request for _down, please_ , _I don’t like heights_. With a sound that was half a giggle and half a sob, she let him go, then staggered when he turned and thrust his rump against her knees.

“Fat lump,” Rosslyn accused, indulging the demand for scritches. “Thank you for your service, Lieutenant. That will be all.”

Hiding a grin, Mhairi bowed and left.

The inside of the pavilion was much warmer than the night outside. The only light came from a brazier by the central tent pole and a single candle that had been set out on a low table next to the bed, but it was enough to see by, and it offered a privacy she could not remember feeling for days. Next to the candle was a water pitcher, and a set of clean clothes was draped over her chair, though it was clear whoever had removed them from her trunk had not thought to iron out the creases. Trying not to think about what Graela’s reaction would be to seeing a shirt in such a state – or to the mess Cuno had already made of the bedsheets – Rosslyn looped the toggles shut, set up the privacy screen to block any gaps in the canvas, and carried the pitcher over to the brazier so she could wash in relative warmth.

Her shirt and breeches stuck to her skin as she peeled them off. She discarded them in a pile with her armour and followed with her smallclothes, grimacing when dried blood flaked off the cloth like rust. Shivering, she washed mechanically, letting the long, repetitive motions lull her into a trance that stripped her of everything but the need to free her skin of every single grain of dirt. Before, she might have lived with the itch of old sweat if it meant she could give in to the restless energy twining through her limbs, but King Cailan’s arrival made everything different. She felt it in the air, in the way the soldiers sat straighter around their fires and how the watchmen kept their eyes up and alert to the dark. For her, it meant her own desires needed to be an afterthought to propriety, just like on the morning she had stood on the parapet of the castle tower and watched her father ride to war without her.

_Don’t think about it._

There was no helping her hair. The matted sweat and blood would take hours to wash and brush out properly, and she had no mirror to help her. It was dark, and her hair was black anyway; nobody would notice. She scooped it into a low tail out of the way and dressed swiftly in the new clothes, before easing her feet back into her only pair of boots, which she had been wearing since that morning. They squelched.

“Let’s go, dog.”

Cuno, patient until now, whined and cocked his head with a questioning wag of his stubby tail.

She sighed. “I have to know. I can’t just –” She remembered the argument, and Eamon’s dismissive shrug when she had asked. “I need to see that he’s alright.”

Nobody bothered them as they crossed the camp. The night was quieter now, the groans of the injured mostly silenced by sleep or something more permanent, and now only a few soldiers not on watch sat awake around their fires. Cuno trotted over to greet some of them, and others nodded towards Rosslyn as she passed, but on the whole they ignored her. Her place was not to comfort them, nor theirs to expect it. She kept her gaze fixed on the infirmary and measured a stately pace, hoping that the appearance of calm might inspire it in her troops, though every fibre of her being strained to break into a run and damn the consequences.

The young templar on duty outside the infirmary didn’t notice her approach. He was standing close to one of the mages, his hand resting lightly on her upper arm and his head lowered to offer comfort. The pair startled when Rosslyn whistled Cuno back to her side, and the mage flashed her a tear-stained glance from beneath a shock of dark hair before slinking away into the darkness.

“It’s been a long day for them,” the templar said, rubbing a sheepish hand along the back of his neck. “Many of them haven’t seen this kind of bloodshed before. Is there something you needed? I’m afraid the infirmary is closed to visitors until the morning.”

“I was hoping to speak to Wynne, if she hasn’t gone to bed yet,” Rosslyn replied.

“The senior enchanter? I’m afraid I don’t…” He peered more closely at her, his blond curls falling low over his forehead. “Andraste preserve me – Lady Cousland, forgive me, I didn’t realise it was you.”

She smiled wryly. “It seems to be a night for mistaken identities. Is Wynne around?”

“I’m sorry, my lady, but she retired about an hour ago. Now that the worst of the injuries have been seen to, the Knight-Captain ordered most of the mages rest for the morning. I could have a messenger run to fetch her, if you like.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Rosslyn said, already stepping past him. “As you were, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Inside, the infirmary was warmly lit by shaded lamps that hung from the crossbeams holding up the canvas roof. The air smelled of bitter herbs and the sweetness of lyrium, but underneath it lingered a strain of blood and cauterized flesh that made bile rise in the back of Rosslyn’s throat. The whole place held the kind of quiet that only comes after a storm, when the clouds roll away and the sun shines down on the broken bits of flotsam left behind. Some of the soldiers whimpered quietly as she passed.

In one corner, a group of men in Highever colours sat in a loose circle, playing a game of cards by the light of a lamp and every now and then checking on a man who lay next to them with his eyes closed and his head in bandages.

“Lady Falcon!” It was the Amaranthine deserter who had once called her father a traitor. “It’s ‘Steal the Queen’ - will ye care for a hand?” He waved her over with the cards fanned between his fingers, smiling broadly as if she hadn’t once held a sword to his throat.

“I’m afraid I play terribly,” she replied, hesitating to cross over and join them.

“Can’t be worse than Jammy over here.”

Jammy gave him a swift dig in the ribs. “Leave off, man. Me luck’s not that bad, or I wouldna be sittin’ here, would ah? Dinna fash yeself owa this’un, lass,” he added. “As ye can see, weh’ve still gotta learn ‘im some manners.”

“Take a load off, lass,” interrupted one of the others, an older man with deep, weathered lines around his eyes. “Ye look like ye could use it.”

Rosslyn couldn’t help but smile as she shook her head. “You’re very kind to offer.” Then, feeling something else should be said, she asked, “How’s your friend?”

The soldiers glanced at their unconscious mate.

“Marvin? Aye, he’ll be alreet. Got a head like a rock, that’un. Yon mageling just asked us te watch ‘im, is all.”

“I’m glad.” She turned to leave, but they called her back.

“At least have a drink before ye go, milady,” the Amaranthine soldier said. He held up a corked glass bottle. “As thanks.”

“Thanks?” Rosslyn asked, discomfited by how they all looked at her through their bandages and bruises, with a trust she didn’t deserve. “For what?”

“Weh’d all be up the cundie if not for you, lass,” said the old man. “We saw well enough what happened on the hill.”

For a moment, Rosslyn couldn’t reply. She looked down at the bottle pushed into her hands.

“Well then.” She shrugged, and pulled the cork out with a hollow _pop_. “What’s your name?”

“Riley, Ma’am.”

“Well, Riley, here’s to not being up the cundie.” She raised the bottle and swigged it backwards, coughing when the strong, smoky liquid hit the back of her tongue and burned its way down her throat.

The soldiers laughed when she passed it back and wiped the tears from her eyes.

“I’ll leave the rest of that to you, I think.”

“What’s going on here?” The soldiers quieted as the healer in charge of the ward emerged into the lamplight, attracted by the noise. “You do know there are people here trying to heal, don’t you? They need rest. I don’t think – wait, is that a _dog_?”

Cuno cocked his head, his tongue hanging out of his mouth in what he no doubt thought was a winning smile.

“It’s not allowed.”

“I’m sorry?”

The healer drew himself up, mistaking the soft tone of Rosslyn’s voice for genuine confusion. “This is an infirmary – it must be kept _clean_.”

Her eyes narrowed, but before she could form a response, Cuno uttered a low _wuff_ and bumped against her legs, before looking back at her expectantly with a wag of his tail.

“Dogs cannot just be allowed to wander willy-nilly around – hey, wait!”

The pulse in her ears drowned out the healer’s complaints. Cuno was keen on a scent, and glanced backwards every few steps to make sure she was following, through to the back of the pavilion until he found what he was looking for and ducked into an alcove blocked from view by a heavy curtain.

It was Alistair.

He lay without moving. A thin sheet was pulled up to cover his bare chest, a thick crust of gore caked his scalp and the left side of his face, and the skin beneath it shone pale with sweat. Was all the blood his? Someone had splinted his left arm and tied it in a sling. If he were dead, then surely they wouldn’t have bandaged his wounds, or propped him up with so many pillows for comfort. Surely.

Cuno, sensing his mistress’ uncertainty, came to lick her hand. He whined and nudged her hip when she only batted distractedly at his ears, and then with a perfunctory sneeze padded over to the bed and jumped up so that his large paws landed squarely – heavily – on Alistair’s stomach.

“Cuno!” Rosslyn hissed. She started forward, but halted again when Alistair groaned and cracked open his eyes.

“Ow, gerroff… ugh… where’d you even come from…?”

Relief hit her with such force that her knees sagged and she had to catch herself against the doorpost, her throat choked with every emotion she had kept in check since riding into the camp. _He’s not dead_. She squeezed her eyes shut and listened to the creak of the straw mattress, the rustle of blankets, sending her thanks to all the gods who cared to listen. _He’s alive, he’s alright, he’s not dead._ The barbs of their argument loomed out of the darkness, still mocking, still powerful enough to sting her with shame, but their potency was lost with the fear that he might have died thinking she didn’t care.

“Who’s a cute and adorable puppy?” Alistair crooned, oblivious to everything but the dog snuggling against his arm. The words were slurred and a laugh bubbled in her throat.

“Andraste?”

She opened her eyes. He was peering into the shadows where she stood, propped up on one elbow to get a better view. The blanket covering him slipped down to his navel, bare except for the bandages, and she quickly turned her gaze away.

“Not quite.”

His confusion broke into a drunken sort of smile. “Rosslyn?” He settled back onto the mattress. “Good. Much prettier than ‘draste.”

Her hand froze against the tearstains on her cheek. The mages must have given him a soporific – blood lotus, perhaps, for the pain of his broken arm – and it was distorting his perceptions. She didn’t know what to say.

Then, after a moment, a thought seemed to occur to him, because he leaned up again and narrowed his eyes at her. “You are _real_ , aren’t you?” he asked. “You’re not some sort of ghost, or apparition, or – or a demon, right? Because I really, really don’t want you to be a demon.”

“If I were a demon, would I tell you?” she teased.

He relaxed. “It’s you. Nobody else mocks me like you do.”

She chuckled as she moved towards him out of the darkness, determined to ignore how her face heated under his scrutiny. “It’s me.” She fiddled with the edge of the bedsheet. “I –”

“There you are!” The healer appeared next to the curtain, more puffed up than ever now that he had been made to exert himself. “My lady, please, I’m afraid I cannot allow you back here. These patients need rest, and –”

“I thought they were here to be healed,” Rosslyn said.

“ _They are_. Which is why I will have to ask you to –”

“Perhaps, then,” she interrupted, “you could tell me why this man is lying here still covered in blood, and still with such severe injuries?”

“My lady,” the healer replied, indignant. “His injuries _have_ been treated, and he has been given a draught to help control the pain –”

“If he needs the draught, then his injuries have not been treated,” she snapped.

From the bed, Alistair giggled.

“Answer the question I asked,” she ordered. “Or will I have to go to Senior Enchanter Wynne to find out why it is you’re so reluctant to be helpful?”

Mention of Wynne’s name deflated the last of the man’s bluster. “M-my apologies, my lady. The volume of patients we received from the battle, we had to prioritise our time and the mages’ energies.”

“Prioritise? You seem to have enough of both time and energy spare to follow me from one end of this place to the other hissing at me like a goose,” Rosslyn said dryly. She let the healer wilt for a beat longer as he tried to think of a response, before drawing herself up to her full, commanding height. “Fetch me a bowl of warm salted water, a clean cloth, and some elfroot salve,” she ordered.

“My lady…”

“Now.”

He did as he was told, mumbling an apology as he stumbled backwards out of range of Rosslyn’s cold glare.

“It’s nice when you’re angry at someone who isn’t me,” Alistair mused before turning his attention back to Cuno. “Who’s a good dog? Yes, you’re a good dog, yes you are!”

She frowned. “You say that like I’m always angry at you.”

The healer bustled back in, keeping his head low as he laid a water bowl and a small clay pot on a collapsible table he set up by the bed.

“That will be all,” Rosslyn said when he remained hovering a few feet away, only relaxing when the sound of his footsteps retreated out of earshot. She turned and shrugged off her cloak and gambeson, laying both across the foot of the bed before rolling up her shirtsleeves.

“Um, what are you doing?” Alistair asked as she sat down. The bed was very narrow. He tugged the blanket back up to cover his chest as far as possible, for decency, suddenly light-headed and rather warm to feel her thigh laid alongside his hip. Water plinked into the bowl as she soaked and squeezed the excess out of the cloth.

“I refuse to talk to someone so unkempt,” she breezed. “It’s undignified.”

“Unkempt?” He looked down at himself, pouting. “I am not.”

“At least tell me this isn’t all your own blood.”

“I – hm. I’m not sure.” He focussed on the way Cuno was butting his head into the crook of his elbow, because the only other thing to focus on was Rosslyn’s studious frown, the way her lips parted slightly as she trailed the cloth over his forehead. It was hard to think when her touch brushed so gently over his skin. “I remember there was a big guy with an axe and an even huger moustache, and then I think someone fell on me, but I was trying to get – Teagan!”

He shot upright and yelped as the movement wrenched his injuries. The next thing he knew was Rosslyn’s hand pressing his shoulder back against the pillows.

“Lie back, or you’ll make it worse,” she instructed. “Teagan’s alive. A lot of people are, thanks to you.”

“Thanks to…? No. I didn’t really do anything.”

She rinsed the cloth. “You saved half our mages and kept our lines from collapsing even when you were overrun.” Her mouth quirked. “His Majesty is very impressed.”

“King Cailan is here?”

Panic churned in his gut. Now – now was the time to tell her everything, about his past, his heritage, every secret about who he was that he had ever kept hidden away. But the drug the mages had given him fogged his brain and fear weighted his tongue. She searched his face, watching him with the kind of patient silence that waited for castle walls to turn into ruins. A memory of Isolde offered itself up then, the pinched force of her glare as she waited for him to confess just _who_ it was spilled paint on her favourite dress.

The image clamped his jaw shut. Rosslyn was a noble. He was a bastard. That was all they would ever be.

“I thought you sent the king to Redcliffe?” he checked, trying to turn her attention away from himself.

She snorted. “Nobody tells a king to do anything.” For a while she wound the cloth through her fingers, chewing her lips together so hard it must have hurt. “He’s the one who led the cavalry.”

“Oh.”

“Still,” she added brightly, “He’s out of Denerim, which was our main concern, and his presence has certainly put new energy into the soldiers. And as for you…” The smirk returned. “There’s talk of making you a proper field commander and everything.”

“What?” His eyes widened in mock horror. “No. no, nonoo no no no. I can’t command an army. Baaaaaad things happen when I lead.”

“Oh?”

“Don’t look at me like that. Before you know it, we’d be stranded in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by – by giant nugs, and I wouldn’t have any pants. Maybe not the last bit, forget I said the last bit,” he added. “Unless…” He leaned forward, eyebrows waggling, before he could stop himself. “Are you now imagining me without any pants?”

It took a beat for her to respond. “You are a very strange man.”

“Some women would call it charm,” he retorted.

“And you’d find most of them serving drinks in taverns.”

“That’s cruel.”

Conversation faltered after that. When most of the dirt was wiped away from his face, Rosslyn shifted closer and set to cleaning out the deep gash on his cheek, wincing in sympathy every time he grimaced at the sting of the salt. It was an ugly wound, but the edges were straight enough that it ought to heal with little scarring. She had to pause every few seconds to tilt Alistair’s head back towards the light, because he kept turning to study her face no matter how she told him to hold still, and after a while it became easier just to leave her fingers resting against his jaw, with his stubble prickling against her skin.

“There, done,” she said, and leaned back with a satisfied curl of her mouth. “You look almost presentable now.”

“There’s no need to be patronising.” He watched as she rinsed out the cloth for the final time, his giddiness from the sedative and from her touch wavering when he noticed the stiffness of her shoulders, the tension in the line of her neck. “You’ve spent all this time on me, and I haven’t even asked,” he muttered. “How are you?”

“That’s a fine question coming from the man lying in a tent with at least three broken bones.”

Alistair shook his head. “What happened to Howe?”

He got no immediate answer. Instead, Rosslyn busied herself folding the cloth, the muscles in her jaw tight and her gaze turned deliberately away from him as she unstoppered the lid on the clay pot. A bitter-sharp whiff of elfroot and peppery knightsfoil caught in his nose when she scooped up some of the salve on her index finger and held it to the wound.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said.

“I’m sorry for before,” he pressed. “This morning – yesterday – whatever day it is now. There were things I shouldn’t have said.”

“Hold still.”

“Rosslyn.”

She slumped, her hand falling from his cheek to wipe the excess salve away on her breeches, turning her body away again with an unsteady sigh. Should he reach for her, try to bring her back to him? He cursed his splinted arm, and his ignorance, and his cowardice as he fought the urge to pull her closer, to trace his fingertips along her hairline, to bury his head in her shoulder and tell her in no uncertain terms how glad he was to know she was alive.

“I had him, Alistair.” She still didn’t look at him, her gaze instead softening on Cuno, who came to push his head into her lap and lick her hands clean. “He was right there, right in front of me, but…”

He realised. “You came back for us instead.”

She nodded.

“Well, err, I’m quite glad you did choose to come back,” he said, unsure of what else to say.  Tentatively, he stretched out his hand and brushed her arm. The unexpected contact made her jump; her gaze flicked between his face and the warmth of his fingers on her skin, her expression frozen in shock.

“You saved a lot of lives.”

She frowned, her words no more than a whisper. “And now all of Highever will suffer for it.” Then propriety asserted itself again, and she shrank away, leaving his hand to linger on the empty air as she reached for her discarded gambeson and cloak.

“It’s late,” she said. “You should get some rest.”

“I… of course.”

Alistair settled back down into the pillows as comfortably as possible and tried to ignore the cold squirm forming in the pit of his stomach with every brusque step she took further away from him. When she paused in the doorway to let Cuno amble past and licked her tongue over her lips, he leaned up again, hopeful for whatever she would say.

“Rosslyn?”

“I… About yesterday morning…” She shook her head, the words lost. “Forgive me.”

And then she was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Cailan is now involved in the war - a good thing or a bad thing? How will it affect Rosslyn and Alistair's relationship? Are they any less oblivious now than they were before? Let me know what you think!  
> \--  
> *feel free to skip* 
> 
> 'cundie' - a sewer or drain  
> 'dinna fash yeself' - don't bother (with this thing)
> 
> For anyone wondering, the slang terms I'm using in this fic come from the real life Geordie dialect of Northern England (specifically Newcastle). Since I imagine Highever to be a lot like Northumbria, complete with sheer cliffs and crumbling castles, it fits pretty well. Other regions in Ferelden have their own accents as well (at least in my headcanons): Amaranthine ~ Yorkshire; Denerim ~ London; Gwaren ~ Welsh; Redcliffe ~ West country; Central Bannorn ~ neutral Midlands/strong Brummie-esque (depending on social status).  
> I realise that probably won't mean a lot to anyone who doesn't live in the UK, but I love language and I love imagining the linguistic history of Ferelden - maybe I'll have to write some meta on it at some point...


	17. II: The Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Cailan now camped with the royalist forces, change comes for both Rosslyn and Alistair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In three days it will have been a year since I first started posting this fic, and what better way to celebrate that than with a new chapter? Let the mutual pining begin!
> 
> Edit: I forgot when I posted the chapter, but there's a mild CW in this chapter for mention of menstruation

_Twenty-fifth day of Drakonis, 9:32 Dragon_

Alistair woke to the light slowly. It brightened against his closed eyelids and wavered, as if shadows passed over him. With the light came a breeze, and a faint strain of birdsong – it was morning, then. He fought against consciousness, shifting under his blankets to be rid of the discomfort of being too warm, too awake, too cramped for such an early hour, but then something cool brushed against his forehead, and he flinched away from it.

“Shh,” a familiar voice murmured, full of care. “You’re feverish.”

He cracked open one eye; the other followed in shock. “Rosslyn?” He searched her face, the slim jaw and high cheeks, the ice-grey eyes softened by the tender curve of her mouth. It truly was her, so close he could make out the palest spray of freckles across her nose.

“You sleep like a bear, you know,” she said, pressing the compress over his brow again. “You didn’t even twitch when the mages healed your arm.” Her fingers ghosted down the side of his face. “I was worried.”

“You really don’t need to be,” he answered, his breath faltering as he realised she was leaning over his waist with her arm propped on his other side, effectively trapping him on the bed. Her thumb rested against the fingertips of his right hand, and it would be so easy to lift his arm, to trail up the length of her sleeve to where the dark mane of her hair tumbled down her back. He remembered it knotted with leaves and dirt on the night he met her; he wanted to feel it soft and clean, running long like silk through his fingers.

“I’m sure you have more important things to do with your morning than come to check up on a dumb grunt too stupid to raise his shield,” he said instead.

One graceful eyebrow arched. “Oh? If you want me to go, then I can always –”

“No!” This time, he did reach for her. This time, she didn’t pull away, and the warmth of her skin beneath her shirt was almost enough to burn. “I’d like you to stay. Please.”

“Alright.”

Carefully, Rosslyn settled next to him again, closer than before, her gaze sliding over the contours of his face as her palm smoothed away the creases in his nightshirt. He hardly dared to breathe, as if any sudden movement might frighten her off. Surely she could feel how hard his heart was pounding in his chest?

Her words, when they came, were barely more than a whisper.

“You are important.” She licked her lips, swallowed. “Don’t ever think you’re not. When I found you lying here, covered in blood, looking like the dead, I…”

“Rosslyn.” The words stuck in his throat. _It’s alright,_ he wanted to say, _I understand, I know_ , _I was worried for you, too,_ but his fingertips trembled as they traced the line of her collarbone, the gentle arch of her neck. Such proximity was more than he had ever dared hope for, but even now she bent closer, her gaze caught on his mouth, a stray lock of hair slipping off her shoulder to tickle against the bare length of his forearm. Her thumb brushed across the healing cut on his cheek as he tilted his face up to meet her.

The kiss was brief, just the lightest press of lips that nevertheless knocked the air from Alistair’s lungs. When she tensed and pulled away with a sharp little gasp, he froze, scared it was too much, too far, until with a shaky breath of laughter, her eyes fluttered open. And then, before he could do anything besides process how the intensity of her regard made his every nerve sing, her head dipped and her fingers twined deeper in his hair and he found her mouth once more slanting tentatively against his. He breathed her name again and she pressed closer, so warm, not a lick of space between them from waist to neck, her lips soft-tasting and eager, as her right hand trailed patterns along the line of his pulse and her left, trapped between them, tangled in the fabric of his shirt –

The dream shattered with an unpleasant lurch. Alistair bolted half upright before realising he was awake. He flopped back down onto the narrow pallet with a groan and threw a pillow over his face to hide the sudden burn in his cheeks as he tried to banish the lingering sensation of Rosslyn’s image kissing him, of his arm wrapped around her waist.

It had been a week since the battle on the bank of the West Roth, not a single day. The army had moved camp to Aeylesbide, a small village in the Lakehead Bannorn that was little more than a main street of raggedy cottages with a chantry at one end and Bann Ferrenly’s estate at the other. He had been moved from the infirmary when his arm was healed, to make space for those with more serious injuries. The room he had been given in the back of the tavern was about the size of a broom cupboard, but it had a window, and right now, flustered and filled with shame, he was grateful for the privacy it offered.

 _She_ certainly wasn’t there. He had barely caught a glimpse of her since that first night after the battle when she came to see him, comforted him, cleaned his face and confessed that she had let Howe go to save everyone. Every day he had hoped to see her walking towards the training yards smirking that lopsided smile of hers, or to hear from Ser Gideon or one of the other captains that she had at least asked after him. But no word came. No familiar, dark-haired figure caught his eye in the lists, and every moment of hope that she would appear only brought another of bitter disappointment when she did not.

He had no right to hope in the first place. When his toes weren’t curling in embarrassment at the memory of some of the things he had said to her – _You’re prettier than Andraste, are you thinking about me without any pants?_ – his gut roiled knowing that even if she did like him, there could never be more than friendship between them; he was still just a bastard, the get of a kitchen maid, and she was now the Teyrna of Highever, leader of armies and second only to royalty.

With a muttered curse, he shrugged off his blankets and swung his legs over the side of his bed, grateful for the rough, grounding cold of the flagstones against his bare feet. It quelled the snide, calculating part of his mind that spoke with Arl Eamon’s voice, and besides that, thinking about his responsibilities for the day helped to chase away the phantom sensations of soft lips and hitched breath and roaming hands that his imagination was so helpful in providing. There were still pins-and-needles in his mended arm, so he shook it out, determined to distract himself from thinking what it might feel like if she gasped his name against his neck.

He groaned. His fingers twitched on the hem of his smallclothes but he gritted his teeth against going further, dragging a deep breath through his nose. He would not indulge himself, not while still so wrapped up in thoughts of her. She deserved better. Besides, there was work to be done, training to supervise, reports to write, and all the other myriad small tasks that had fallen to him while Teagan recuperated. He pulled a pair breeches off his nightstand and sniffed to make sure they weren’t in dire need of laundering before he tugged them on. The laces he decided to leave undone for the time being as he went about the rest of his morning routine, first propping up his small mirror against the wall so he could shave, and then embarking on a customary search for socks gone astray under his bed. When he had first gone to Rainesfere, he had tried to be more disciplined in how he kept his belongings, but considering that was the first time he had ever really _had_ belongings, or somewhere to put them, they inevitably spread out despite his best efforts, as if to claim the space from potential intruders, and the habit stuck.

He was only half dressed – and still half-hard – when someone rapped smartly on his door. Panicked, he fumbled and ended up lost in the folds of the shirt he was trying to put on, then hissed in pain when he managed to smack his shin against the solid edge of the bedframe. What if it was…?

The knocking came again, louder this time.

“Who is it?” he managed, finally getting the shirt over his head.

“Your presence has been requested, ser,” barked a cool female voice from the hall. Not Rosslyn.

Thoroughly confused, he threw open the door and found a round-faced woman a few years older than him, dressed in the scarlet and gold splintmail of the royal guard.

“Are you sure you have the right room?” he asked.

The lieutenant frowned. “Ser Alistair?”

“Yes?”

“Then I have the right room. As I said already, your presence has been requested. By His Majesty,” she added, when he continued to gape at her.

“His Majesty…?” Cailan wanted to see him? His stomach dropped like lead towards his knees. He must have done something, or perhaps Eamon had said something, and now he was to be reminded once again that his proper place was that of a weed in a summer garden, growing through the cracks in the shadows where people couldn’t see. “Why does he want to see me?”

“The king’s business belongs to the king,” the lieutenant replied coolly, taking in his loose shirt, tousled hair, and bare feet. “I’ll wait out here, shall I, until you’re properly dressed?”

“What?” Alistair glanced down at himself. “Oh, right, yes. Won’t be a moment.”

He shut the door in the guardswoman’s face and ran a shaky hand through his hair. _Cailan wanted to see him_. The last time he had spoken to his half-brother, he couldn’t have been more than five, brushed up and on his best behaviour to meet the father he had never seen. He had screamed and raged as Eamon’s servants scrubbed him clean, and then sulked as he was lectured about the importance of _proper appearance_ in front of the household and the cluster of minor nobility who had gaggled after the king’s invitation. He remembered looking up at the towering figure of Maric on the steps of Redcliffe Keep, half in fear and half in resentment, searching for even the tiniest flicker of affection behind the light blue eyes, but there was nothing. The king moved on, and in his place came Cailan, the legitimate son, dressed in rich fabric and furs against the winter cold while he himself shivered in nothing but a thin woollen jacket. Alistair greeted him as Eamon had instructed, in turn with the other servants, but scarcely were the words out before the prince lifted his gaze to the far wall, cried something about swords, and dashed away, oblivious to everything but his own amusement.

It was a long time ago. It didn’t matter. Steadying his breath, Alistair gathered up his smartest jerkin and the parade boots he had thankfully remembered to clean. There was little he could do for his hair, save to smooth it down and pray it stayed flat, but it would have to do. He would meet with Cailan as requested, he would take whatever orders he was given, make assurances that he had no pretensions or desires above his upbringing, and then he would slip quietly back into the life he had carved out for himself, and he would be content with it.

He had no right to expect anything else.

* * *

 

The revered mother stood expectantly in the light spilling through the window, her arthritic hands clasped humbly over the gold-stitched robes that marked her station, her sagging mouth prim with the beneficent expression of a teacher waiting for their student to apologise for speaking out of turn.

“I’m afraid I fail to see the issue, Mother Berit,” Rosslyn said instead, resting back on the arms of her chair and stretching her long legs next to Cuno, who was asleep under her desk.

She would have preferred to simply curl into a ball around the hot water bottle resting in her lap, but with her status made official, the whole camp seemed determined to make her the arbiter of every petty grievance that troubled them, and so hiding away in her bed until her courses passed was a luxury she could not afford. Her lower back gave a particularly painful twinge and she reached for the honeyed guelder-bark tea that was supposed to lessen the discomfort. As the revered mother’s fingers twitched in annoyance, she wondered idly if the remedy might work better mixed with brandy. It would have certainly helped the taste.

“The issue, Your Ladyship,” Mother Berit said officiously, “is that the mages have been given a frankly shocking degree of liberty. I fear the danger they present to the ordinary people here is not being taken seriously enough.”

“They’re hardly running amok,” Rosslyn answered, amused. “I have already spoken to Knight-Captain Irminric on this matter, and he assures me that our mages have undergone the most stringent checks to determine their suitability. I trust the Knight-Captain’s judgement, and his charges have proven themselves so far.” For an instant, her mind flickered back to the night after the battle, searching through the dark infirmary full of wounded with the unpleasant mingling of blood, bile, and bitter herbs in her nose, but she pushed the thought away.

“They are not watched closely enough, Your Ladyship,” Mother Berit insisted. “I fear that, having grown up in the relative safety of the royal court, you are not familiar with the danger unchecked magic can bring to the common folk – those whose wellbeing is in my keeping,” she added, placing one gnarled hand over her heart. “I have no doubt in Knight-Captain Irminric’s abilities as a templar, of course, but I have observed a certain – shall we say – familiarity with his charges that is concerning. The consequences should one of the mages attempt to escape –”

“Ah, now I see. You’re worried that this small taste of life outside the Circle might make them unwilling to return there once this is over.”

Mother Berit puffed herself up. “We cannot allow apostates to run free and spread their heresy and wickedness among the common people. _Magic was made to serve man, and never to rule over him_ , and that is the Maker’s Word _._ The caution I urge would be for the benefit of all, including the mages themselves, in order to protect them from those who would wish them harm out of fear of their abilities. My only thought is for the welfare of the Fereldan people,” she simpered, adding pointedly, “Including those who have found themselves straying from the path of the Maker’s light.”

Rosslyn ignored the jibe about her familiarity with the Alamarri gods; it was meant as an insult – or possibly a veiled threat about the perils of openly denying the Chantry – but arguing faith with a priest was like asking a fish to believe in rain, and the old woman’s condescension was beginning to eat at her patience. She had been at odds with Mother Berit ever since her speech before the pyre at Deerswall, when she had all but said they should be grateful, that the destruction of Highever was nothing more than a test of faith for those who had survived, as if it were perfectly reasonable for a god to play dice with the lives of thousands of people.

“My answer to your request is no,” Rosslyn told her now, taking another sip of the disgusting tea. “The mages are here by the king’s command, and while they remain under his command they are to be treated as part of the army. They’ve been through as much as the other soldiers – more, in some cases – and as such they are entitled the same liberties, under Fereldan law. I cannot treat them like criminals without a crime to fit to their name, merely because _some_ might find it convenient.”

Watching Mother Berit’s eyes bulge in their sockets was a gratifying return for all the needling she had endured over the past few days. The vindictive pleasure warmed her enough that for a moment, the cramps almost faded away.

“Magic is –”

“Not a crime,” she interrupted, with an easy smile. “At least, it wasn’t the last time I checked. The mages here are not maleficar, and while they remain under the supervision of the templars they are free to do as they choose within the bounds of the law.” She shrugged. “There’s nothing I can do.”

“As the Chantry’s chief representative here, I demand –”

“You demand _what_ , precisely?”

The old woman’s mouth clicked shut, the eyes so recently bulging with anger now wide in fear at having gone too far. Rosslyn’s voice snapped like frost, her indolence replaced with a controlled fury that shimmered in her grey eyes and seemed to draw in shadows to cut her cheeks at a sharper angle. The banner hung on the wall behind her rippled in a draught, set at just the right height that the blazon of the Laurels winged her head like a crown.  

“You are here by courtesy, Mother Berit, to minister the spiritual needs of those who find comfort in the Chant, and nothing more. It’s not your place to decide policy, or its application.” Sighing, she leaned back again. “If you have further concerns about the mages, I’m afraid you would do better taking up the matter with Knight-Captain Irminric directly.”

For a stunned moment the revered mother stood in the centre of the tiny room, apoplectic as she tried to work out how to salvage the remains of her dignity in the face of Rosslyn’s implacable, stone-faced dismissal. Eventually she sank into a bow as far as her aged knees would take her, muttering a gracious enough thankyou before straightening and gliding out with that beneficent expression once more masked over her features. She had probably already been to Irminric, Rosslyn thought darkly, and when she was turned away had come to the new-made Teyrna of Highever in search of someone malleable to go over the Knight-Captain’s head, though it was a wonder she hadn’t sought out Arl Eamon instead.

“You’ve made an enemy there, I reckon.”

Rosslyn blinked from her musings just in time to see Morrence shrug and dip her pen in her inkpot.

“Still, I’m glad she’s gone,” the captain huffed. “All that holier-than-thou attitude was making it difficult to think in here.”

“I’m glad you’re pleased,” Rosslyn replied, shifting back towards her desk to pick up the work interrupted by Mother Berit’s surprise entrance. “Annoying her like that probably wasn’t wise.”

Morrence shrugged again, her pen scratching away at the accounts she was looking over. “You’ve got bigger fish to fry, Your Ladyship. I wouldn’t worry.”

“I’ll try not to.”

They fell back into studious silence. Rosslyn readjusted the hot water bottle in her lap to try and wring out the last bit of heat, letting the smell of ink and hot wax bring her back to the task at hand. Outside, a guard patrol clanked past the window, while at her feet Cuno snored and whuffled as he dreamed. The letter in front of her was almost an exact copy of one she had written a dozen times already, a petition to her family’s holdings in Nevarra to inform the steward there of the change in circumstance, and to request money be redirected from the usual accounts.

She wished for Aldous, with his encyclopaedic knowledge of Cousland business and the courtesy to charm the feathers off a peacock. He would have known what to do. She could have left everything in his hands and been confident her father’s legacy would endure. Instead, she had only her scrabbling recollection, her stiltedly penned words, and the hope that her financiers wouldn’t join with the Highever Bannorn in siding against her. The possibility of it was almost as galling as the need to beg for her own money like some common wayfarer, but the alternative was to ask the king for a stipend, and what would that do for his confidence in her?

Since Cailan’s blithe intervention in the battle, the army’s plans and her place in them had changed. He had made her Teyrna of Highever in her own right, but in taking on the mantle her father had left behind, she was now beholden to the Crown in a way she hadn’t been before. And the king wanted to go south, away from her home. She chafed against the decision, but without funds or other allies she had no choice but to abide by it. She had ordered soldiers back along the Imperial Highway to disrupt Howe’s rule and protect the people, but a single contingent of scouts could never hope to match a properly outfitted army of mercenaries and the mood in her camp was understandably grim.

Draining the last of the tea, she shook off the thought and sat back to scan over what she had written, twisting her father’s ring on her finger. The smith had shrunk it to fit, but the need for haste made it a poor job. There was a bulge in the metal left over from reworking the band, and it had rubbed a red mark into her skin, one made worse by her compulsion to fidget with it. As she read, her thumb brushed over the seal, etched with the Laurels and clogged with scraps of blue wax from her morning’s work, an unfamiliar, bulky weight to remind her of the cost of her life, and the duty that meant it was no longer her own. _There will be time to grieve, Pup, but it isn’t now_.

She looked up at the sky outside the window, trying to find shapes in the clouds that drifted past in an attempt to distract herself. She couldn’t afford to get lost in memories.

_Just one more letter, one more report and maybe everything will be alright._

“It’s a beautiful day out there.”

She blinked. “Hm?”

Morrence smiled and nodded towards the window. “Maybe you should take a break, Your Ladyship. It would be a shame to waste the sunshine.”

“Oh no,” she replied breezily, “I was only resting my eyes. Besides, it would be unfair of me to leave you to do all this by yourself.” She gestured to the paperwork lying in neat piles wherever there was room, hoping her answering smile looked less forced than it felt.

“Please,” Morrence scoffed. “Dad had me doing the shop accounts almost since I was old enough to count – he said it kept me out of trouble.”

“You didn’t go to the chantry school?” Rosslyn asked, surprised.

The captain brushed her fingers over the slightly pointed tip of one ear, then clenched them when she realised she was doing it. “It didn’t agree with me,” she said. “Keeping me in the shop kept me where Dad could see me, and taught me a trade, even if I never was very good at sewing. He said once that me joining the army saved him a fortune in wasted cloth.” Her smile faded. “I suppose that didn’t count for much in the end.”

“He may still live,” Rosslyn offered, though the words lacked conviction, and she turned away at the sour taste of her own memories of Highever burning.

Morrence shook her head. “You should go,” she repeated. “Take a break from this – go for a walk or something.”

At mention of the word ‘walk’ Cuno, who until this point had been fast asleep, raised his head with a little snort of excitement. His tail wagged hopefully.

“See? He agrees with me.”

“And you did that on purpose.”

“Me?” Morrence laid her hand over her heart. “All I did was offer a friendly suggestion that Your Ladyship go for a _walk_.”

This time, Cuno barked and hauled himself to his feet to pad over to the door, looking back with pricked ears when his mistress didn’t immediately follow.

Rosslyn sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Fine,” she grumbled. “But don’t think I’m going to forget this.”

“Don’t come back too soon!”

* * *

 

What started as a brief walk meant to appease her captain slowed to an amble as Rosslyn took in the views of Bann Ferrenly’s garden, admiring the arrangement of shrubberies and beds of spring flowers that drew her attention away from the hunching pain low in her belly. Gravel crunched under her boots, all but drowned out by the birdsong trilling from every branch and bush. Dew-laden herbs brushed against her legs so that puffs of fragrance bloomed in her nose and awoke memories of sneaking into the castle kitchens before a feast, only to be scolded by Nan and chased out with the heavy copper ladle she used to stir the soup.

When she first stepped outside, she almost turned to go back, fretting that perhaps there were too many accounts for Morrence to handle alone after all, but then Cuno caught sight of a flock of pigeons waddling along the lawn and decided to chase them. If only to keep him out of mischief, she followed, and when he got bored of his game he let his nose lead both of them along, turning back to every now and then to snuffle her hand and reassure himself she was still there.

She was content to let him wander. Without a pile of papers to squint at, she was beginning to relax enough to feel the true depth of her exhaustion. The never-ending list of extra duties that came with her new title only formed part of the problem – in the bright sunshine it seemed ridiculous, but since the battle she had been plagued by bad dreams. Her nightmare was an old one, given new life by the circumstances. Every night, she hunted through a forest, the sneering laughter of her quarry getting further and further away as weeds tangled around her legs. Then she was falling, drowning, beating up against a clear pane of ice while freezing water stole the sound of her screams. As a child, she had been alone, in cold darkness, but now as she fought for breath it was her family staring down at her, their expressions dispassionate, critical. Sometimes the eyes of her parents were blanks where the crows had pecked them out.

Her fists clenched at her sides.

None of this would be happening if not for Howe. He was tearing Highever apart and she was being forced to let it happen. If only she had gone after him, she might have secured the North, cut Loghain off from one of his most critical allies, and won back territory and allies in the process. She tried to tell herself that quitting the field at West Roth would have been dishonourable, a sacrifice of both men and integrity, but such reassurance was difficult to swallow when she now had to spend her mornings reading reports of another farmstead massacred, of crops burning in the fields and women hidden in abandoned mineshafts to save them from mercenary patrols. Short of breaking with the king to wage her own private war, it was all she could do to send her small band of soldiers to disrupt his sanctioned barbarism, but it wasn’t enough.

Once more feeling the chafe of her father’s ring on her finger, she sat down on a nearby stone bench and sighed, determined to think of better things. Not all of her dreams were bad. Sometimes, in the early morning after little sleep, her mind would suggest the tingle of gentle fingers trailing along her skin or a whispered caress of her name, sensations anchored by the impression of earnest amber eyes framed by freckled skin. She tried to ignore these visions, and the way her heart quivered as she woke from them. Desire had never troubled her before. She didn’t know what to do with it, or how to control it, or whether she even wanted it in the first place.

No, the last was a lie, if she were being honest. In the infirmary, when Alistair touched her arm, with all of the things he had said to her, she had wanted to kiss him. Whether the impulse arose because of fatigue or her relief at finding him alive, she couldn’t tell, but realising it had shocked her, and ever since, the thought of it would not leave her head. She tried to put it from her mind with work, remembering her resolve to let him alone, but still the question lingered, and her dreams persisted.

It would pass. Like a bad head-cold or a summer squall, her mind would eventually clear, and the complications arising from this ludicrous fancy would fade away, leaving her life as ordered as before, with problems she actually knew how to deal with. It had to.

Still turning the resolution over in her mind, Rosslyn stood once more and turned for the house. She needed the monotony of paperwork, and the work needed to be done. She was about to call Cuno when he appeared at her hip, stiff-legged, a warning growl rumbling through his chest.

“What’s the matter?” Following his gaze, she peeked along the path and frowned. “Bann Auldubard.”

Cuno grunted, his disdain clear.

“Good boy.”

Together they watched as the young bann strode in the direction of her office. He hadn’t spotted her, but no doubt would come looking when told she had gone to stretch her legs. So far, he had been polite, but Rosslyn was a teyrn’s daughter, and she had grown up learning how to read the look of marriage-hunters out to improve their social standing. Her distaste for the situation was matched only by her annoyance that, aside from her own obvious disinterest, a full-blown civil war and the fact that she currently had nowhere to govern didn’t seem enough of a deterrent.

“It’s going to be one of those days,” she muttered, already turning away. “Come on, boy. I think you could do with a bit more exercise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *feel free to skip*
> 
> Many a young apprentice is wary of the guelder-flower in the physic garden, believing all too easily the Chantry's superstition that this plant attracts demons. While it is true guelder-flower grows more vigorously in places where the Veil is thin, and wisps can sometimes be seen darting around the snow-white flowers, in truth it is just extremely useful. Its leaves and and bark make useful medicines, especially in the aid of uterine complaints, and given its affinity for the Fade, ink made from its dried berries is particularly suited to use in grimoires, as it has a higher tolerance for latent magic than recipes using other, more mundane ingredients. 
> 
> \-- An excerpt from "The Botanical Compendium" by Ines Arancia, botanist
> 
> ***
> 
> (The guelder rose is actually a real plant that traditionally helps relieve menstrual cramps, and there's a lot of folklore surrounding it, especially in Ukraine. As always, opinions, suppositions, emotions, and all that jazz are completely welcome and eagerly awaited.)


	18. II: Divisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosslyn tries to escape her new title, just for a little while, and Alistair faces a decision as the king's plan becomes clear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the start of this chapter seems a little flat, it's because it and the last chapter were once part of a single superchapter that got too big and split apart under its own weight. Trust me, it was better this way.

The main road through the village bustled with soldiers and camp followers as well as the local population, with impromptu stalls set up in the gaps between houses selling everything from good luck charms to seed potatoes and cured pelts. It was rowdy, but not disorderly, and it seemed so far that the army was sticking to Cailan's injunction to leave the villagers in peace. Rosslyn, relieved now that the effects of the guelder tea were finally taking hold, allowed herself to be borne along by the current of people, enjoying the rare chance to absorb the ambience of a market day without the presence of guards to set her apart from the rest of the crowd.

One middle-aged woman she passed hollered out deals for her fruit stall, vaunting the quality of her produce at such a volume her voice could be clearly heard over the general hubbub of everyone around her.

“These apples look very well for the season,” Rosslyn commented, stepping out of the flow with Cuno at her heels. The fruit was stacked in neat pyramids, glossy, stippled yellow, and looking as crisp as if they hadn’t spent several months stored in a cellar.

“Oh, thankee very much, Ma’am,” the woman chirped, after a moment of stunned silence. “I grow ‘em meself – and these hazelnuts, and them dried pears ye see owa there, on’y those don’ keep so well in the winter months. Would ye mebbee like to try one?”

Rosslyn chuckled and reached for the small purse of coin she carried with her. “No need, Messere. I think some of those apples would do nicely, if you’d fill one of those small bags for me.”

The woman grinned toothily. “Aye, right away, Ma’am.” She reached for one of the reed-net pouches hanging from a nail hammered into the post that held up the awning.

“How much for them?”

“Oh no, Ma’am, I couldn’. Ye’ve already done me a good by coming here an’ ev’ryone seein’ ye. They’ll be clamourin’ now.”

“And what if they also see you refuse to take payment?” Rosslyn asked, leaning closer. “They might get ideas.” She watched the fruit seller suck on her bottom lip, undecided, and added, “It’s only a few coppers. Take it with my gratitude.”

“You’ve a reet canny tongue in your head, Ma’am,” the woman said, handing over the bag and holding up three fingers to indicate her price. “It’d be bad luck to refuse such a thing. Maker keep ye –” She glanced around warily for eavesdroppers and muttered, “And the Lady, too.”

“The same to you, Messere,” Rosslyn replied, smiling as the woman turned away to address the queue already forming at the other end of the stall. She could imagine how the boasts would go now, and took a small sort of pleasure in knowing she had done something, even if did nothing to lessen the mountain of her other worries.

On the other side of the road, a messenger guided her weary-looking horse against the flow of traffic. Her leathers were stained with dirt, the colours faded so her allegiance was hard to discern, but from the grit of her scowl, her mission was both urgent and serious. Rosslyn let her go. Given the probably sensitive nature of the news, it would be madness to try and waylay the messenger in the middle of a crowded street – and whatever had happened, she would likely hear about it soon enough anyway.

She stepped off the road and onto the muddy path that led along a low ridge above the lists, towards the stables, absently tucking in to one of the apples. The crunch took her away to the crisp autumns spent in Highever’s orchards, chasing through the groves with Fergus and the labourers’ children, playing Heroes and Werewolves until the afternoon shadows grew long and they were called back to the croft, where her father would have his sleeves rolled up to take his annual, ceremonial turn at the cider press. The would be her duty now, along with a thousand others. If the croft still stood. If she lived long enough to ever see home again.

Unconcerned with the future, Cuno trotted at her side. He glanced pitifully between her and the net bag in her hand, as if he hadn’t already devoured an entire haunch of goat that morning, and wagged his stubby end of a tail when he saw her watching.

“You won’t like it,” she promised. “These are for Lasan.”

He whined.

Below them, the day-to-day routine of battle training ground on, with the smart tramp of soldiers marching in formation punctuated here and there by the dull ring of a sword on wood, or the bark of one of the arms masters correcting a stance. Gideon was busy in the riding ring, giving a lecture to a line of fidgeting cavalry officers who one by one were called forward to ride through a slalom of tall poles, guiding their horses only with their knees. The results were… mixed.

Alistair was nowhere to be seen. She didn’t realise she had been searching for him until his absence sent a swoop of disappointment coursing through her stomach. She cursed herself for even looking. What would she do if she did see him? Should she expect him to drop everything to greet her on familiar terms, or to smile tolerantly while she stumbled through a conversation just because she found herself the victim of some unwelcome, childish fantasy? And then there was the other matter, the truth she had tried so hard to avoid since the night after the battle, the one she feared would blurt out at the first opportunity.

He had lied to her. Every stripe of blood she had cleaned away from his face as they sat there together in the infirmary had confirmed it, the resemblance between him and the king so uncanny despite the age difference that there could be no doubt of who he truly was. The pieces of the puzzle fit so perfectly now she knew the final design – his resentment of nobility, the reason he always tried so hard to deflect attention away from himself, why the subject of his childhood was never discussed. Imagining what he must have suffered growing up as an unacknowledged bastard made her heart clench every time she thought of it, but so did the insidious voice that never failed to remind her it was a truth _she_ had not been trusted with, either. He hadn’t wanted her to know – and that was before, when she wasn’t yet the Teyrna of Highever, one step down from the king and what must surely be the seat of his resentment. How wide that gap yawned between them now. _People like me tend to avoid the ones sitting at the top end of the table_.

 And what was she to do? How could she look him in the eye, knowing she held a secret she was never meant to keep? Better that they not meet, better not to see his repulsion when he found out that she knew.

 _But what if he were acknowledged?_ a querulous voice asked in the back of her mind. She had dared to think it, on the nights she woke up after dreaming of him, entire conversations carried out in her head as she tried to work out the best way to rid herself of her unease. But to draw him out, to force the issue of his parentage when he so clearly didn’t want it just to satisfy her own selfish wants would only prove right every rotten opinion he had about the nobility, and that was a painful thought.

She had no right to pry. She had already promised herself not to impose upon him. She would keep her knowledge of his secret, even from him.

Lasan was grazing in the paddock as she walked up, completely at ease with a couple of geldings she didn’t recognise, his tail swishing idly at flies, and she put her own worries out of her mind. At a distance, she checked her horse’s condition, noting how he bore weight easily on his injured hoof, and how patches of thick winter fur were starting to give way to the sleek roan marble of his summer coat. When she whistled, his proud head arced up with a whinny, and she watched as he started towards her. He walked solidly, with equal weight on both sides, and when one of the geldings tried to overtake him he squealed and bucked, breaking into an airy trot in order to reach her ahead of the others.

His head bobbed as he smelled the apple she held out for him as a greeting gift. Velvet lips plucked the offering from her palm with a soft blow of welcome, leaving her free to slip between the bars of the fence as he crunched it down. The other horses kept a respectful distance but she watched them all the same. As laidback as Lasan was for a stallion, he was often jealous of human attention, especially around food, and getting caught in the middle of a dispute between two animals that alone could easily kill her would not help with her pile of paperwork.

She cleaned his foot as best she could without a pick and checked it for signs of bruising. His new iron shoes still had their shine, so he must have only been out loose recently, but the poultices the horsemaster used seemed to have worked.

“A few more days, and you can get back to showing off for everyone,” she informed him with a clap on the neck.

Lasan snorted turned to regard her with one warm brown eye, then promptly scraped his head against her side with such force she staggered backwards. Apparently his nose itched.

“Oi!” She pushed back against him, but chuckled and moved her hands to the familiar spot on his withers that made his lip twitch with pleasure. Years ago, she would spend afternoons in the stables with Fergus, breathing in the musty scent of horse and helping the grooms so they could avoid the gatherings of uptight nobles who flocked to the castle almost every other week. And then Fergus had met Oriana and the hours in the stables became hers alone, a way to hide from her mother’s friends and the seemingly endless supply of unmarried sons they paraded before her.

But something always drew her away from those brief interludes of peace, and even now, as she found a twist of grass to work over Lasan’s back in place of a curry comb, she spotted a scout in Redcliffe colours jogging towards her from the direction of the village.

“Teyrna Rosslyn!” the boy puffed, saluting.

“Get your breath back first,” she advised, giving her horse one final pat before slipping back between the fence slats.

“Yes, Your Ladyship – thank you.” He breathed deep and started again. “Arl Eamon sent me to find you. We have news – a messenger has just arrived from South Reach with news from Arl Leonas. He says forces from Gwaren have taken Denerim.”

Her eyes widened. “But our last reports put him _in_ Gwaren. How could he slip past South Reach undetected?”

“I don’t know, Your Ladyship,” the scout replied. “Only that I was sent to fetch you.”

“I’ll come at once. Was there something else?” she asked, when he hesitated.

“I’m sorry, your Ladyship, only Arl Eamon bid me find King Cailan as well – there was a private letter for him, from the queen, I think – but I don’t know where he is. I asked some of the royal guard, but all they said was His Majesty didn’t want to be disturbed.” The scout wrung his hands in front of him, his gaze fixed on her feet, already flinching from the expected reprimand.

Rosslyn shook her head. “Cuno can sniff out His Majesty.” If nothing else, it would give a her a few more minutes out in the sun, free to imagine a life not embroiled in politics. “I’ll see he gets the message. Go about your duties.”

“Yes, Your Ladyship – thank you!”

* * *

 

Alistair’s hands were clasped behind his back, his brows furrowed in concentration as he listened to Cailan talk and tried to work out where best to punctuate the speech with affirmative nods. It had been his attitude for the better part of an hour now, as the pair of them wandered through the rows of orchard trees mantled with blossom and alive with the humming of bees. Inwardly, he was doing his best not to panic.

The king’s hands were expressive, his face open and smiling in an almost infantile manner, but his blue eyes were lively and intelligent, and from the first moment they met Alistair felt like a bull in a show ring, appraised and judged for purpose. He had tried to hide his resentment, though it turned out Cailan bore little resemblance to the spoiled child in his memory. He was courteous, if stilted at first, as if he were uncertain of protocol, but once the most awkward enquiries were out of the way, his smile widened and his shoulders relaxed, and Alistair found himself completely wrong-footed.

“Of course, your current wardrobe just will not do,” the king was saying now. “It’s a shame I had to leave my tailor behind in Denerim, but time was of the essence and the old fuddy never did do well on horseback – we’ll just ask Bann Ferrenly nicely if he’ll spare his man for a suit or two.”

“Your Majesty, I –”

Cailan stopped him with a hand on his arm, his smile shrinking into more sympathetic lines. Alistair had been prepared for a scolding, or an order to keep his head down. This was something he could never have foreseen.

“It’s a habit, I know,” the king said, “but you must start using my name. We are brothers, aren’t we? You must admit, our likeness is uncanny! Why, I could almost be looking into a mirror back in time.” His grip pressed harder in what he must have thought was a reassuring squeeze. “Our father never told me the reason he hid you away, but fate has brought us together nonetheless and I wish to make redress for past mistakes. It’s time to claim the birthright that should always have been yours. What say you, brother?”

Alistair swallowed. The king’s eyes were too bright. How many years had he spent hoping for words just like these? When his mother died, he had dreamed that Maric would spur through Redcliffe’s gates on a great white charger to claim him as a second son and carry him away from the life of drudgery expected from the bastard orphan of a kitchen maid. Even when Teagan had taken him to Rainesfere to be a knight, there had been a faint hope at the back of his mind that it was his chance to prove worthy of the father who had never noticed him, the man whose shadow had fallen across him all his life.

It was the past. What he was now, he had earned through hard work and merit, not because of Maric’s name.

“You Majesty,” he said again. “I’m just an ordinary soldier, nothing more. I’m not even sure I have matching socks on today. With due respect, are you entirely serious about this? I mean, what does an heir to the throne even _do_?”

Cailan threw his head back and laughed. “That’s your worry? Come, we are not Orlesians to sneer at one who does not have a conventional background. The people will love you – you understand them, and you have fought for them, and won a rousing victory to boot! And as for the rest, well –” he waved his hand vaguely and wrinkled his nose – “We can see to that. Will you at least think on it?” he asked, when Alistair still looked uncertain. “Most people would jump at the chance to be royalty, or so I’m told.”

With a sinking sense of premonition, Alistair straightened his shoulders and nodded. “As you say, Your – _oompf_!”

Something heavy slammed into his waist, nearly doubling him over. When he managed to get his wind back, he looked down to see a slobbery, tongue-lolling smile and an absurdly wiggling rump trying to press itself against his breeches. Panic seized his limbs. After a week, an entire week of hoping and having those hopes dashed, of all the places she could have turned up, why did it have to be here, _now_?

“Ho, now that’s a familiar face!” Cailan laughed. “And if I’m not mistaken, when this one appears, the other isn’t far behind – and yes, here she is!”

Alistair followed the point of the king’s finger as Rosslyn strode into sight along the path ahead. Heat leapt up the back of his neck. There were bruised circles under her eyes, her boots were muddy, and the quilted, slate-grey cotton of her shirt was dusted by a fine covering of reddish hair, but if anything that lack of polish just emphasised the grace of her walk, and the economy with which her warrior’s muscles moved under the form-fitting lines of her clothes. And her hair – it gleamed like a raven’s wing in the sunlight, braided back from her face but long and loose down her back, just as it had been in his dream. Cuno stretched up to lick his chin, his full weight against Alistair’s legs. He gladly took the distraction and bent over to fuss the dog, the better to hide his flaming cheeks while he tried to rein in the wandering line of his thoughts.

“Teyrna Rosslyn!” Cailan cried, with genuine delight. “Of all the blossoms out on this fine morning, you are surely the most beautiful, if not the most expected.”

Alistair’s ears burned. He remembered what she had said in the barracks room, about the king and his charm and how they grew up together.

“Ever the flatterer, Your Majesty,” she replied easily. With his eyes fixed resolutely on the grass, Alistair imagined the way she held her hand out for the king to take, the way the king took it and brought it to his lips. “Tell me, has a large, excitable dog wandered across your path recently?”

“Why, yes. I believe he’s just making himself acquainted with…” He trailed off when he noticed Rosslyn’s start of surprise, and Alistair sheepishly looking up to return her gaze. “You know each other?”

“Ser Alistair was the one who found me and my troopers at Wythenshawe,” she explained. “He was kind enough to take care of me.”

Alistair bowed, his hands still trailing through Cuno’s fur, and searched her face for any sign of partiality as he made his greeting. “Your Ladyship.”

Her expression remained neutral, though he thought maybe her gaze lingered on him a beat longer than strictly necessary before turning back to the king.

“Oh I will have to hear all about this, I’m sure,” Cailan was saying. “But tell me first, to what do we owe the pleasure of your company?”

Her voice lowered as she explained her errand, her head bowed respectfully, but every so often her eyes flickered to him and back, as if uncertain whether to include him in the conversation or not.

Cailan’s easy smile collapsed in a frown. “I must see to this. But first I must apologise for having disturbed your walk, my lady,” he said, tilting her a winning smile. “Since the two of you are acquainted, would you mind terribly if I left you here together?”

Alistair saw his panic mirrored in her eyes. To be alone with her – after so long spent thinking about it – but with so much between them now, what could he _say_?

“If Her Ladyship doesn’t object?”

“I don’t – unless I would be intruding?”

He smiled at their stumbling clash of words. “Of course not.”

“Excellent.” The king pressed a light kiss to Rosslyn’s knuckles that managed to be charming rather than pompous, already moving towards the village. “I will see you soon, my lady, and we’ll see what this business is about. And you also, Ser Alistair,” he added. “Remember you’ve promised me you’ll think about my offer.”

When he left, the easy atmosphere left with him, and for a tense moment neither of them spoke. The only sound apart from the spring birds was the contented panting of the dog as he rolled all the way over onto his back to allow Alistair better access to his softest parts. The sight made Rosslyn fold her arms across her chest and frown, but she had to bite her lips to keep from smiling.

“Absolutely pathetic.”

Alistair gasped in mock outrage. “Don’t listen to the nasty lady, boy. You’re a good dog.”

Cuno righted himself and tried to _boof_ him on the chin.

“You’re looking well,” she offered, after another lengthy pause.

“Oh it’s a miracle,” he replied, giving her a distracted wave. “For a while, I was afraid I wouldn’t pull through, and that I would depart this life without having accomplished my dream of growing a really fancy moustache.” He ducked his head and ran a nervous hand through his hair, heart pounding. “I was, uh, lucky I had such a good nurse.”

“Mhm, that mage – Amell, is it? – is rather pretty, isn’t she?” came the easy reply.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” He pouted, to cover his mortification. How could he expect anything but a deflection from such a clumsy compliment? “I don’t remember picking on you when you were still an invalid.”

“You wouldn’t have dared,” she told him, but the smug tilt of her lips faded, her fingers going to fidget with a ring he hadn’t seen her wear before. “I’m sorry for not coming to see you.”

_You sleep like a bear. I was worried._

It was a dream, not real; he shrugged it away. “You’ve been busy. And I hear you’re officially Teyrna now,” he added brightly. “Is there a special curtsey I should be aware of, or anything? I heard somewhere it’s a custom for knights to lay their coats over puddles for noble ladies to step through.”

She frowned. “Wouldn’t the water just seep through the fabric, or overflow at the edges?”

“See, that’s what _I_ thought,” he replied, glad to get at least a small reaction from her, but unsure what to do with it. He wanted to ask how she was, if she needed anything, what she would do now the army was moving south, but he didn’t dare.

“Either way, I wish you wouldn’t.” the lop-sided smirk flashed briefly at him. “I trip over enough protocol these days without having to contend with somebody’s coat. Besides,” she added, “ _I’m_ not the one lofty enough to have private meetings with the king.”

He dropped his gaze, rubbing at the sudden itch on the back of his neck. He needed to tell her, even if nothing came of it. The words bunched in his chest, struggling for order, a way to bring it up without just blurting out that he’d been lying by omission since their first meeting. And maybe, he realised, if she knew, she might have advice about Cailan’s offer to acknowledge his claim to the throne.

But when he looked back at her, his confession ready on his tongue, he found she had turned her attention to the branches of a nearby tree, and was running her fingertips along the dainty white blossoms, the pink buds yet to open. When she bent her head to inhale the scent, her features set in wistful lines, it was an image he wanted seared in his brain forever.

“But that’s none of my business,” she told him quietly. “Forgive me. To be honest, I came out here to get away from politics for a while.”

His mouth snapped shut.

“I should head back. No doubt whatever is in that message for His Majesty will involve me soon enough.”

“Of course,” he replied. “I ought to return to my duties as well, if you wouldn’t mind the company? We could talk about things that have nothing to do with politics.”

“Oh? Like what?”

“Well, I heard that the Avvar make a particularly fine cheese from the milk of dwarven battle nugs, and I would like your opinion on the matter.”

He was a coward. As he fell into step beside her, the dog a barrier between them, he felt the moment pass, and mourned it. What good would it do her to know who he really was anyway? The secret had never caused him anything but trouble, and giving it to her would just be another burden to add to shoulders already strained with responsibility. No, far better to keep his father’s name to himself and not risk her pulling away from him completely – or worse, treating him with a deference                 that was never meant to be his. Making her smile was enough. Besides, who was to say that this idea to make him a prince wasn’t just some passing fancy of the king’s, a way to create intrigue among the nobility for some as-yet undiscovered reason?

Even in his own head the argument was less than convincing, but he kept his silence nonetheless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So she knows, but he doesn't know she knows, but what she doesn't know is that he wants her to know. 
> 
> And then there's Cailan being Cailan.
> 
> What are your thoughts? Should Alistair tell Rosslyn the truth? Will he? What effect will Cailan's decision have on the war? So many questions!


	19. II: Interlude: Shadows on the Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His plans outmatched for the time being, Loghain plots his next move in Denerim.

_Twenty-seventh day of Drakonis, 9:32 Dragon_

The large window in the king’s study had been installed during the rebuilding of Denerim, as the last black marks of the Occupation were being washed away. It offered an unparalleled view of the city, which Maric said was the point. He had once asked, rhetorically, what kind of king he would be if all he did was sit behind a desk making writs without seeing how they affected his people. The fact that many of these writs had been delayed over the years because of His Majesty’s tendency to be distracted by the goings-on in the streets below had been an endless source of frustration for his advisors.

Despite the tendency to let his mind wander, Maric’s dedication to his people could not be denied. In the years following the Orlesian retreat, trade deals with the Free Marches and Antiva had swelled the size of the capital’s harbour district, bringing in exotic goods, raw materials, and investment, and now the deep water port could accommodate even a Qunari dreadnought, should one ever deign to come so far south. With the increased shipping came the markets and the merchants and the bustle of dockworkers making their daily living. On an ordinary day, the streets would be busy with fishermen and hawkers lauding the goods they had for sale, and with them, sailors waiting for the tide to turn, and sometimes the more brazen madams trying to win their coin and their attention for an hour or two.

Loghain could see no loiterers today. He scowled out at the drizzle, one hand clutched reflexively at the heavy pendant hanging around his neck, stroking it with his thumb. The curious green crystal at its centre caught the light and made for an annoying reflection in the glass, but he barely noticed it. The last of his ships were making port, unscathed by the winter storms. In addition to the troops he had originally meant as a reserve, the three-masted vessels carried much needed supplies and equipment from the winter stores in Gwaren, and their addition to his rations would greatly ease the strain on the soldiers and on the general populace, who had so far taken to his presence with the equanimity to be expected of commoners. So long as they were left alone without privation, they would be unlikely to cause trouble.

 _Still, no need to be complacent._ Even though he had outed Cailan as a traitor to his people, there were still those among the guard and the nobility whose loyalty remained steadfast to their monarch. An admirable quality, to be sure, but a dangerous one for a man whose success depended on his enemy not knowing his next move. Even now, the gates to the city were shut to all those without official business, and the massive netted chain that guarded the harbour against piracy was drawn in so that not even the smallest boat could pass and send word to the loyalists.

The sight ought to be easing his mind. Setting sail from Gwaren in the middle of winter with all of Cailan’s forces blocking the Brecilian Passage was a gamble a lesser man wouldn’t have risked, but he had seen the opportunity for a swift end to the conflict, and had taken his chance when the Southron Hills became clogged with snow. He had left port ahead of the storm, satisfied in the knowledge that Arl Leonas and others of his ilk would rest on their certainty, think him trapped by the southern winter. While they had hung their cloaks and settled by their fires to wait for the thaw, he had rounded the peninsular unmolested, with his soldiers safe from every enemy but the sea.

And yet, when he had pulled into port on that overcast, blustery morning a week ago, it was only to find his ultimate prize had slipped his grasp.

_I underestimated him._

The capital hadn’t so much fallen to him as noticed the new pennants on the city gates, then shrugged and resumed its winter torpor. Loghain had the palace, and the royal guard, and control of shipping all along the northern coast, but without Cailan, the victory was a hollow one. The plan had been to curtail the king’s movements, to make him see reason or act for the greater good if he did not, and either way to end the war before the toll of innocent lives became too great. Instead, he had escaped, and taken his legitimacy with him. Although untested in open battle, the young man was skilled with a blade, and worse, he was likeable, sure to rouse support among banns easily swayed by pretty words. The loyalty Loghain himself had to fight for with threats and grim debate, Cailan managed with an easy smile and a witticism or two. No doubt it was such radiant charm that had ensnared Anora’s feelings, too – and those of that thrice-damned Orlesian harpy eager to supplant her.

A movement in the courtyard below caught Loghain’s eye. It was the wind, brushing against the limp body swinging by the neck in the courtyard, purpled and starting to swell from exposure. The sight calmed him. When he had led his troops onto the dock to find only the wizened Arl of Denerim waiting for him, in the depth of his anger he knew he had been betrayed, because how else would Cailan have known to flee? The purge of his ranks had been swift, the punishment meted out to the conspirators harsh but necessary.

The wind tugged again, and the dead soldier twisted on the end of his rope, so that the empty face turned upwards to the king’s window, staring at Loghain from dark eye sockets, tongue blue and bloated where it poked between his teeth.

_Yes. A necessary sacrifice. A traitor. It was always I who made the harsh decisions to ensure victory. Maric, at least, understood that._

Loghain turned his attention back to the ships. The question before him was what to do now. Summer was swiftly on the march, and with it, the long, hot days traditionally given over to campaigning; the forces currently held at bay by freak snowstorms and boggy roads would soon be on the move, and without a clear advantage of numbers, open warfare would be risky.

And then there was the Cousland girl, this ‘Falcon of Highever’ as she styled herself. He should have known better than to trust Howe to take care of the teyrn and his family. The man’s avarice was outstripped only by his hubris, and the combination had allowed the chit to escape and raise a war across the North. Twice now he had read reports of her victories, and just last week a snivelling message from Howe saying his forces had been driven back by raids from ambush soldiers wearing the blazon of the Laurels. She had the makings of a formidable opponent – in some ways, one more dangerous to his plans than Cailan. Her style was reckless, her limited experience compensated for by the spur of revenge, the same knowledge of righteousness against cruelty that had pressed all the old guard to victory during the Occupation. Loghain knew that feeling well; he might have admired her in different circumstances.

Yes, it had been a mistake to let Howe have the Couslands. Bryce had been an honourable man, a fellow warrior, and a veteran of the Rebellion, always a level head in the Landsmeet unlikely to fall for rhetoric. In truth, he was one of the few who could be called noble without any sense of irony, but the loyalty commanded in Highever had made it necessary to remove him from the field before Cailan’s quarrel led to open war. If there had been time, he would have tried harder to persuade the teyrn to part ways with the king, even knowing it would never have worked. The Couslands were too loyal, too traditional, and proud to a fault. Loghain’s lip curled in a faint sneer at this thought, wondering if Bryce would have been so quick to dismiss this new threat from Orlais if it had been _his_ daughter set up as the laughingstock of Ferelden.

_And now she’s running loose, garnering sympathy and likely making eyes at that fool boy, looking to usurp my daughter’s place as Queen._

Behind him on the other side of the king’s desk, the members of his senior staff shifted nervously as his mumblings took on the timbre of a growl. He had always been a strict commander, demanding the best from those who served him, and their loyalty was rewarded in kind – as was disloyalty. The stresses of the past few weeks seemed to finally be catching up to the old general, however. He suffered from headaches, and this in turn made him more taciturn, less predictable, and catching his ire these days was dangerous. More than one mind veered to the body slowly turning in the courtyard. Loyalty held sway, but their respect was now edged by a creeping sense of dread.

Only the tall young woman stood at the centre of the knot of advisors seemed eager to draw Loghain’s attention rather than deflect it. Ser Cauthrien stood polished in full armour, clunky layers of plate and mail that were not quite padded enough to hide her narrow frame, her hands held stiff at her sides, a rapt expression on her thin face. Her shoulders ached from the strain of keeping her spine straight, her feet were numb, and a wisp of mud-dark hair fell into her eyes, but she made no move to brush it away. Since losing King Cailan, the worsening news about the rebellions in the north and west meant the way forward was now unclear, and there was much to consider before deciding on the best course. Would it be more reassuring to have a commander who made snap decisions without thinking through every eventuality caused by his actions? She felt a spike of contempt for those who shrank away from her master. After all, he had brought them all safe across the winter sea, caused the king himself to flee in fear, and now stood in Denerim’s palace, having won the city with minimal losses. She could not judge his actions executing the supposed traitor. The decision had been swift, for sure, and shocking to all those who had witnessed the man’s final pleas as he stood on the scaffold, but Loghain’s face had been grim as he passed the sentence, and in all her years of service, Cauthrien had never known him to be unnecessarily cruel. And what other reason could there be for the king’s conveniently-timed escape?

She licked chapped lips and waited.

“We cannot allow ourselves to grow careless,” Loghain said eventually. He still faced the window, and it was unclear whether or not he was speaking to the other people in the room.

“The weather is already improving,” Cauthrien offered. “We can be on the road in two days, if you wish it.”

He turned, his thick brows drawn down over his eyes in a dark scowl. “My wish is to see the people of Ferelden free of those who enslaved us for a century, and of those who would hand this country back to Orlais like a trussed boar on a platter.”

He stroked his thumb over the green jewelled pendant as he spoke, distracted. She tried to suppress the tiny shiver that trailed up her spine when his eyes locked on hers – it was the weight of expectation she saw in them, that was all.

“What is your command, You Lordship?” she asked.

“Everything I have done has been to secure Ferelden’s independence, and I will not see my efforts go to waste because of Cailan’s vanity and his foolish refusal to listen to reason. Rendon Howe’s ineptitude has cost us support, and I do not trust his loyalty to our cause. He will be dealt with, but not while his actions provide a distraction for our enemy.” He sighed, the corners of his mouth pulling down in a grimace. “So now I look to you, Ser Cauthrien. The nobility must be brought into line so that we may stand united against the Orlesian threat.”

“I will see it done, Your Lordship,” she answered.

Loghain nodded. “Our scouts report that the king’s army suffered heavy losses at West Roth, and because of that were unable to press north and retake Highever. Instead, they have retreated. If his commanders have any sense, they’ll go to Redcliffe to try and rebuild their forces in safety, but Cailan himself is reckless. His designs on Empress Celene are proof enough of that. Now is the time to strike.”

A ripple of anticipation wove through the officers behind Cauthrien.

“You will lead our forces south, and cut him off from his sanctuary at Redcliffe with whatever force you deem necessary,” Loghain continued. “Defeat his army, kill this upstart scion of Highever.”

“And the king himself?”

“Bring him back alive, if you can. I am not yet such a villain to want him dead, and I would spare my daughter more pain.”

“I understand, your lordship.” She bowed and turned to leave, but his voice called her back.

“You have come a long way, Cauthrien, and I trust your judgement in the field.” His eyes met hers again, pale and uncanny in the backlight from the window as he reached forward and offered her a packet sealed with the embossed image of the Drake in black wax. “Do not disappoint me.”

She nodded again and swallowed back the dread that chilled her bones as she took her orders. It wasn’t fear of him that made her pause – it wasn’t – it was fear of failure. If not for his generosity, she would be nothing more than another browbeaten farmwife with a clutch of bawling infants at her hip and no chance to better herself, to make a name based on her merit as a warrior. The other captains parted for her, scuttling back out of reach with envious looks.

When the door slammed closed, they shuffled forward, passing glances between each other, as if seeing who would dare to break the silence first. Loghain had turned back to the window.

“Well?” he demanded, when the silence stretched. “What have you to say – or are you all content to stand about like partlets waiting for wheat to rain from the sky?”

“Your Lordship,” said one, the oldest and most confident of the four. “I have reports here on the garrison, and on your proposal to –”

“Leave it here,” Loghain snapped. “I will read it later.”

“Yes, Your Lordship.”

“There was one matter that requires discussion,” interrupted another, who bore the rank insignia of a guard-captain. “It’s an issue of some delicacy.” He paused, trying to frame his words. “It has been wondered by some what your intentions are regarding the… the queen.”

Loghain turned at that, his eyes softening for a moment. “Anora is safe in Gwaren, where she will stay,” he said. “Did you think I would risk her in this venture?”

“Uh, no, Your Lordship,” the young man replied. “But the concern among some of the men is more that she…”

“Spit it out.”

The officer gulped. “There is nobody to watch over her in Gwaren, save her women. The worry is she may do something rash, may warn the king about –”

“You dare suggest my own daughter would betray me?”

“W-well, I…”

“Anora is loyal to _me_!” Loghain thundered, his lips peeling back from his teeth. “I would sooner trust her than any of you. Is that clear? If I so much as hear a whisper about this matter after today, the consequences for the one uttering them will be severe.”

The captains looked at each other, quailed, and mumbled their assent. A knock on the door disturbed the fraught atmosphere of the study, drawing Loghain’s scowl away from the faces of his officers.

“Come!”

“Good day, Your Lordship,” the messenger said as she poked her head around the door. “You told me to inform you when that magister arrived. He’s waiting out in the corridor, Ser. There’s another one with ‘im. Name of Erimond.”

“Very good,” Loghain replied. “The rest of you are dismissed. Send him in,” he added to the messenger, who nodded and retreated to carry out her duty. He glanced at the garrison report left on the very edge of his desk, but did not reach for it. Instead, he waited for the magisters. The chaos in Highever had forced his hand. Doing business with the Imperium was something Maric had always baulked at – a price costed too high, he said – but then Maric had never faced a threat quite like this one, and to lose his advantage now would be to lose the whole of Ferelden to its oldest enemy.

He would not let that happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You didn't think I'd forget about what Loghain was up to, did you? ;)


	20. II: Summerday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ferelden nobility swears its allegiance to their new prince, but Alistair's mind is proccupied with other things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I'm back with another chapter! As always, life is hard, and this fic is a refuge from that, so I hope it helps brighten your day too.

_First day of Bloomingtide, 9:32 Dragon, Summerday_

The morning of Summerday dawned to a symphony of birdsong, under the bowl of a flawless, iris-blue sky. The sun had already burned away the carpet of dew from the grass as Alistair edged out onto the smooth lawn of Bann Ferrenly’s garden, a large book tucked under his arm, ears pricked for any sound of pursuit. His new valet had senses like a cat, and would be shocked to find his charge sneaking about the grounds in yesterday’s shirt, without even having shaved. But Alistair had woken from uneasy dreams – he had been chasing something, or maybe running away – and after an hour of trying to doze off again his eyes had fallen on the tome he had been meaning to give to Teagan, and his limbs had twitched with the urge to be up, and out, and working off the shadows of sleep.

As he turned out of the gate to cross the low field towards the infirmary, he caught sight of the smouldering remains of the Summer’s Eve fires that had sprung up like magic the night before, lit from embers brought out from every hearth in the village in a procession rife with symbolism. The empty ale casks, food crumbs, and the odd snoring, tangled pile of limbs he passed spoke for the nature of the evening’s revelries; the village’s residents were simple farming stock and kept old customs despite injunctions from the Chantry sisters. Cailan’s soldiers, never known to pass up an opportunity for letting loose, had eagerly joined in, eating and drinking away the final winter reserves in a feast meant to ensure abundance for the coming summer, and there was more than one glint of mail littered among the duller folds of homespun cloth.

It would get hot later. He tried not to think about that, or about how stuffy it was going to be in Aeylesbide’s wooden chantry, full to the brim with nobles sweating under their layers of perfumed finery, with the eternal fire throwing out even more heat and nary a breeze stirring through the rafters as Mother Berit conducted the long ceremony of a traditional Summerday oath-swearing. And they would all be staring at _him_.

The news of Denerim’s capture had hit Cailan hard, leaving him in a melancholy for days afterward, but then his natural spark had flared back into life, and through the sheer, bewildering force of his personality, Alistair hadn’t had a peaceful day since. From dawn until dusk he was occupied with lessons in etiquette, history, geography, languages, politics, and economics, set to learning lineages and lists of trade agreements by a gaggle of tutors who had seemed to appear from out of nowhere. In the brief respites he got between these drillings, Alistair found himself being measured for a new wardrobe by a wrinkled old man with a large nose and spindly, iron-hard fingers, who cared nothing for the fact that his subject might be ticklish, or awkward, or sweaty from the gruelling sword practices that were being scheduled for him twice a day. Those were the moments he wished he’d tried harder to dissuade his overeager half-brother from the decision to make him a prince.

“Trust me,” he had tried, “I’m not royal material.”

Cailan had only winked at him. “Not yet, you’re not.”

The healer on duty let him into the infirmary with a silent nod, used to his presence at such an early hour. The weeks since the battle at West Roth had transformed it from a hastily erected pavilion into a sturdy timber-framed building with tall, airy windows that would serve the village well after the army had moved on. For now, the main ward was mostly empty, the only occupants those whose swords had slipped in training, or whose exuberance the night before brought them staggering in in search of a hangover cure. Nobody paid Alistair any heed, which was a welcome relief.

Teagan, billeted in his own private room with a view towards the hazy green hills, was already awake and chatting to the dark-haired mage assigned to heal him – Amell, he thought her name was.

“Is this a bad time?” Alistair asked. “I can come back.”

“Nonsense,” came Teagan’s hasty reply. “Karyna and I were just discussing arrangements. I’m glad you found time to stop by and see me. Sorry, mind the breakfast things,” he added, when Alistair crossed to the only chair in the room and found it already occupied by a tray laden with an empty porridge bowl and an unlidded pot of sharp-smelling salve.

“Sorry, Your Highness,” mumbled Amell, brushing past him. “Let me clear those out of your way.”

“It’s not a problem – thank you.”

“I would have thought you would be getting ready.”

“I snuck out,” Alistair said, finally taking a seat. “The oath-swearing isn’t for hours yet.”

“Isn’t it?” Teagan frowned. “I must have woken early then. I do that, sometimes.”

Alistair bit his lip and glanced away. His uncle hid it well, but there were lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there before the battle, and every so often they would crease deeper as a twinge shot through the ruined nerves in his lower back. The damage there was severe, and though it had improved under the ministrations of the healers – and promised to heal fully, given time – it was the waiting that Teagan found intolerable, the need to lie still and be tended hand and foot like an infant, just for the smallest chance of being able to walk again. That did not mean he was without comfort, however. As the king’s uncle, he wanted for nothing, and every day his room filled with more personal touches meant to ease his boredom; there were books to keep him occupied, curiosities that brightened the walls, and even a vase of fresh flowers standing on his bedside table to bring a little of the summer indoors.

In two days it would all be going with him to Redcliffe. Loghain’s army would soon be on the march, which meant, trapped between Lake Calenhad to the west, the steep hills of the Wrymspine to the east, and the looming threat of Howe in the north, Aeylesbide was no longer a safe haven. While their forces took the Lakeside Road, Teagan would travel the smoother, faster route across the water, and once he reached the castle, would organise defences, ready for whatever their enemy was planning next. It made sense, since Teagan could no longer fight, but Alistair found himself remembering when he was ten years old, terrified of going to the templar school in Bournshire, and had discovered instead that the dashing Bann of Rainesfere was coming to make him a knight.

“Here, I brought you this. For your journey,” he said now, remembering the book he had found in Aeylesbide’s market.

Teagan took the slim volume and turned it over in his hands, noting the embossed calfskin cover, and the title picked out in faded gold leaf. “ _Fereldan Tevinter: Revealed mysteries of the Imperium_ – I’ve never heard of this one.”

“There’s all sorts in it,” Alistair explained as Teagan began riffling through the pages. “It’s not in the best condition but I thought you might like the colour plates – the ones for Ostagar and the Seacatch at Lakehead are really good – and there are diagrams, and speculation on some of the techniques they used for building as well as descriptions for all the places it mentions.”

Teagan smiled at him. “I’m sure I will enjoy reading it. Thank you.”

Alistair dragged a hand backwards through his hair. “I wish there was more I could do. I mean, I never really thanked you for taking me on, or for putting up with me all these years. I suppose at the time I was too busy sulking about leaving Redcliffe, but…” He trailed off, his mind drifting to the ceremony again, and everything that would change after it. “Now that you’re leaving, I’ve started to realise just how ungrateful I was –”

“Alistair,” Teagan said, laying the book aside, “Listen to me. I’ve watched you grow from a scrawny boy with scraped knees into a fine young man, and it wouldn’t be right for me to take credit for that. You did it all yourself. And besides,” he added. “You saved my life – if I were keeping score I would call it even.”

“But –”

“If you keep arguing with me, I promise I’ll start calling you ‘Your Highness’,” he warned.

Alistair groaned and dragged his fingers down the side of his face. “Please don’t.” Since Cailan announced his intentions to make his bastard half-brother his heir, the nobles answering his muster had all but tripped over themselves to earn favour with the new ‘prince’. A few weeks ago, they would have ignored him and considered the lack of attention generous, but now, they all wanted to know his story; they fawned and flattered and gathered about him with such persistence it made him glad of his endless stream of lessons.

And there was one face he never saw among the throng, no matter how often he looked – but he was determined not to think about that.

“It suits you,” Teagan said, bringing Alistair’s attention back to the present.

He laughed. “Nobody else thinks so. They’re all _very_ aware who my mother was, what _I_ am – just some embarrassing family secret brought to light because it was convenient.”

“Alistair –”

“They’re right.” He was too old to let the truth bother him anymore. “What do I know about being royalty? What in the world qualifies me for any of this other than the fact that Maric decided one night that his bed was cold?” He huffed, shrugging. “I’m not stupid, you know. I know what they’re calling me when they think I can’t hear, ‘the Briar Rose of Ferelden’. A pretty enough decoration if the situation calls for it, but one that oh so _very_ clearly belongs in a hedgerow.”

Teagan waited for him to slump back in the chair before replying. “And here I thought you were too sensible to pay attention to the backbiting of those upstarts.”

“I was better off being ignored.”

“Cailan seems to have faith in you.”

Alistair laughed again, a bitter sound. His first impression of the king was of a man with boundless energy who was used to having bright ideas and letting everyone else take care of the details. Oh, there was cunning there, behind the foppish smile and the golden looks, but too often it was lost in the simple optimism that came from the privilege of growing up oblivious to the hardships of others. At times, it was difficult not to be resentful, but that wasn’t something he could say out loud, even to Teagan.

“It’s true,” his uncle insisted. “He’s spoken highly of you whenever he’s come to see me, and not for diplomacy’s sake. I’ve known him a lot longer than you, and there is one thing I know: he takes his role very seriously.” He reached out and laid his hand on Alistair’s arm. “He would not have entrusted his succession to you if he didn’t think you could do a good job. Besides which, you’re a proven commander who has already gained the respect of the soldiers, which is half the battle already won.”

When Alistair still looked doubtful, he withdrew and settled back into his mountain of pillows. “My leaving won’t be the end of the world, you know. Astillo will still be here, and Rothby, and before long this will all be routine.” He grinned. “Just try not to let it all go to your head.”

Despite the low turn of his thoughts, Alistair found himself returning the smile. “But that sounds like it would be so much fun.”

Silence fell.

“Who brought you the flowers?”

Teagan’s expression softened as he turned to look at the spray on the table. “Our new Teyrna of Highever. I was worried she wouldn’t find time to see me off, but she brought them last night. She said she thought I might appreciate them better.”

“They’re probably a gift from one of her suitors,” Alistair said, failing to keep the sneer out of his voice. His heart lurched unpleasantly in his chest. “How, uh… how is she?”

The look Teagan fixed on him was not comforting. “Have you two fallen out?”

“No! I mean, I don’t know…” The room was suddenly too hot. “Yes, maybe. I don’t know. I haven’t seen her, not to talk to. She’s… avoiding me.” Alistair stared down at his hands and picked at a blister gained from his most recent sword practice. Every time he saw Rosslyn these days, it was at a distance. Occasionally he spotted her surrounded by a bevy of scribes and officers, giving orders, or he would pause his own training for a few moments to watch her in cavalry exercises, but between the two of them there was barely a spare hour in their schedules in which to talk as friends. On the day they met in the orchard, she had been gracious, breath-taking, and a traitorous hope had fluttered in his chest… but no. Since then she had been aloof and condescending, as insulted by his new title as the rest of them.

“Are you sure you’re not the one avoiding her?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded.

“Are you?” Teagan pressed.

“No!” He ran his hand through his hair again. “We go to the same meetings, sit at the same table for meals – when she even bothers to show up – but she never says a word to me, not anything that’s not about inventories or troop movements or training new recruits, and then as soon as it’s over she’s off like there are hot coals in her shoes – and all the time she’s got this _look_ , and…” He frowned, biting back the words, knowing how pathetic he would sound if he said them out loud. _She never smiles anymore._

“Maybe she’s just busy,” Teagan suggested, brushing at the loose hem of his blanket.

“ _I’m_ busy,” Alistair replied darkly. “I know exactly what it is. I saw her face when Cailan made the announcement to the assembly. How tragic that the king picked a commoner for an heir, instead of someone with a traceable pedigree.” He huffed and added to himself, “I should have known better.”

“Do you really think so little of her?” Teagan asked.

“ _What_?”

The room grew tense with the silence. For an instant, a muscle ticked in Teagan’s jaw, his brows drawn together in a disapproving frown that needled straight through Alistair and left him hunched in the chair, staring at his hands again, with his insides squirming like a barrelful of eels.

“She hasn’t been sleeping,” Teagan said after a beat.

Alistair looked up, but was interrupted before he could open his mouth.

“I don’t think she’s been eating either, though that’s more difficult to tell just looking, and I knew if I asked she’d stop coming to see me altogether.”

“I… didn’t know.”

“West Roth shook her badly,” Teagan sighed. “And then there’s everything that’s happened since, but stubborn as she is, she won’t complain.” He shook his head. “Couslands and their bloody duty.”

“What’s happened since?” With all the lessons, was there some news Cailan had thought to keep from him?

The older man’s stare could have pierced lead. “You should really ask her, don’t you think?”

“I…” The words trailed into a grunt. “But – we won West Roth. I know Howe got away, but…” He recalled their argument the morning before the battle, Rosslyn’s proud determination to wield a sword not made for her, and after, in the infirmary, how her whole body had shrunk away when he asked how the fighting went. He closed his eyes against the memory, realising. “Howe got away.”

Teagan shook his head, then winced when his back twinged. “That’s not what happened. _She_ failed to capture him.”

“That wasn’t her fault!” Alistair cried. “Everyone knows the only reason we came out the way we did is because she came back to help us. She’s a hero, she’s –”

“The one who made the decision to turn back and let him go,” Teagan finished for him. “Never mind that she would have guilted herself just as badly if she had left us to the mercenaries. And now the war will drag on, and we’ll be moving south, away from Highever, and there’s nothing she can do about it.”

“But –” Alistair sputtered. “But it’s not her _fault_.”

“Have you told her that?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, unwilling to admit that, wrapped up in his own problems, her struggles had completely passed him by. “Why didn’t she tell…” _me_ , he wanted to say, but feared it would expose too much of his own feelings. “… anyone?”

The long-suffering sigh Teagan sent in his direction was accompanied by a roll of the eyes so pronounced, it left Alistair entirely sure that only the uttermost patience and the threat of never walking again kept his uncle from bashing his head against the wall.

“She’s a _Cousland_ ,” he said, as if that explained everything. “The oldest and certainly one of the most powerful families in Ferelden, and now she’s the last of them.” He sighed again. “Who is left for her to confide in? She has no friends here. Apart from the king, everyone is her subordinate, and you’ve seen for yourself how the nobility can be. If she shows anything but complete confidence to the wrong person, the people will lose faith in her ability to lead, and those who want Highever’s lands will see it as a weakness and tear her to pieces.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “She’s closing herself off because right now, she feels that’s the only way she can protect herself.”

The statement might have been a physical blow for the way it knocked the breath from Alistair’s lungs. His hands gripped the armrests of the chair as he tried to wrap his mind around the idea, tried to sort out horror and confusion and guilt as each twisted through his chest, probing for weak points the way roots vein their way through cracks in a stone.

“She could have told me…”

“Trust goes both ways, Alistair,” Teagan snapped, his patience finally lost. “I know you didn’t tell her about your parentage, even though I said it would come back to bite you. I know, because in all the times she’s been here, she’s only mentioned _you_ once.”

“She did?”

“Out of the blue. She said it must have been hard for you, growing up with such a secret hanging over your head, knowing the kind of life you could have had instead of the one you got. And then she left – didn’t say another word.”

“Maker’s breath – I _wanted_ to tell her,” Alistair protested weakly. “The words just…”

“ _It was badly done_.”

He had never heard such a cold tone from Teagan before, so taut with anger and disapproval, and it shocked the excuses right out of his head. He opened his mouth, then shut it again to quell the lump that was rising up his throat, ringing in his ears so loudly it almost drowned out the tentative knock on the door.

“Come!” Teagan called, when Alistair found he couldn’t speak.

Amell poked her head around the door. “Sorry for interrupting, Your Highness, but there’s a messenger come to take you up to the house to get ready.”

“I’ll be there in a moment,” Alistair replied, still dizzy. How had he failed to notice the rising sunlight in the world beyond the window?

“The boy was quite insistent.”

“I said, a moment,” he grunted. When the mage nodded and closed the door behind her, he sagged forwards and dropped his head into his hands. “What do I do?”

“Well,” Teagan mused. “I’m not known as an expert on this subject, and it may not do you any good, but my suggestion would be to try and talk to her.”

* * *

 

_Talk to her_.

Such advice was easier given than applied. There were so many things he wanted to say, he didn’t know where to start, or even how to get her attention. Before West Roth, it had been so easy; conversation between them bubbled up like a wellspring despite the barrier of propriety. And now that barrier was gone, and yet so was the sound of her voice, bright and clear and lilting like a mountain stream.

What if he was too late, and the damage already done to their friendship was irreparable? Would she wait long enough to let him apologise, or even believe him when he admitted all the times he nearly told her, and didn’t? Would that make her angrier, or more compassionate? And lurking under these smaller fears was the other, deeper, nagging certainty that Teagan was wrong, that his first assumption had been right and she really did object to having a bastard commoner elevated above her. Scenarios played themselves through his head. He perfected his speeches and imagined her reactions, and responded to them, only to baulk and start again when the conversation ended in inevitable disaster.

He was so caught up in trying to work out his words he barely noticed as he was poked and prodded into his new feast-day doublet and breeches, or how his valet lifted up his feet for him to put his boots on, and even buckled the jewel-studded belt around his waist as if he lacked the two hands to do it himself.

“Nervous, Your Highness?” Marten asked.

“A little,” he admitted, but kept the reason to himself. She would be there, a beacon of propriety. He would have to make the first move, to break the stalemate that was all his fault to begin with.

“Well, you needn’t worry about your appearance, at least. Though I’m afraid I can’t help you with anything else.”

Alistair turned to face the full-length mirror that stood in the corner, and though he had to lean back to see all of himself, he was pleasantly surprised by how well his new clothes suited him. The rust red of the War Dog’s colours warmed his skin, and the cut of the fabric showed off the strength of his shoulders without making them seem bulky. It was made of fine, patterned samite sewn with garnets and gold thread, and with only a cotton shirt beneath it, even the close air of the chantry would be bearable. If only the same could be said of the nobles.

Beyond the window, he caught sight of the villagers gathered under the ancient oak on the common, the young people dressed in Summerday whites with garlands of flowers crowning their heads. A pair of lay sisters ministered to them, preaching the traditional lessons of the feast day, though they were having to battle with hangovers and the steady stream of nobles for their congregation’s attention. It seemed their exasperation with their rather pagan charges must also be traditional, as they suffered through with astounding patience.

At the sound of knocking and Lieutenant Mhairi’s brusque enquiry, Alistair turned and puffed a breath through his cheeks. She had come to lead his escort to the chantry, and as he had learned, she had very limited patience for dawdlers.

“Right then,” he muttered, and stepped through into the narrow gallery that ran the length of the top floor in the house. “How are you today, Lieutenant?” he asked.

“Very well, thank you, Your Highness,” she answered crisply. “We’re running behind schedule.”

“Of course.”

He gestured for her to precede him along the corridor, but the party hadn’t taken two steps before he caught sight of Rosslyn coming around a corner flanked by two officers from her house guard, deep in thought as she listened to what one of them was saying to her. He stopped dead. All that time spent imagining, working out what he would say to her, and he hadn’t once given thought to the fact that, as the Teyrna of Highever, second only to royalty, she would be expected to wear something other than an ordinary work tunic and breeches to a formal ceremony.

“Prince Alistair, we really must…”

Hearing his name, Rosslyn’s head snapped up. When her eyes met his they flashed wide for an imperceptible second before she recovered her composure and sank into a formal curtsey, her expression careful, guarded. Less easy to hide, however, was the stain of colour spreading across her cheeks.

“Your Highness.”

“Your Rosslyn – I mean, Ladyship – you look…”

The dress caught the light in shifting hues of dove grey and lilac, the weave playing a pattern of flowers he couldn’t name. Embroidered gold trim decorated the hem, the borders of the sleeves, and the sloping ‘V’ that formed the neckline, which plunged low enough to show off just a hint of cleavage and a pair of dark freckles that stood out against the cream of her skin just below her collarbone, like the pinpricks of a spider bite. Alistair tore his mind away from the already twisting path his imagination was taking there, only to find himself staring at the way the broad girdle at her waist showed off the lean curve of her hips, tantalising in a way her usual attire could never manage. The trailing ends of the belt, flashing with gold links, pulled the eye downwards and emphasised the flow of skirts that swished with every subtle movement she made. And of course, her hair was down, braided with laurel flowers at the temples but otherwise left loose to cascade over her back in an inky wave like a brush of midnight at midday.

“H-how are you?” he managed to croak.

A wry smile twitched in one corner of her mouth, but it vanished quickly. “Well, thank you. And you?”

“Oh, you know,” he stumbled, with an airy wave of his hand. “I’m just about to go and embarrass myself and the king in front of all of the most important people of Ferelden. I’m peachy. I, uh, didn’t expect to run into you. Uh…” He ran a distracted hand through his hair, cursing the lack of filter between his brain and his mouth, scrambling for his manners as he tried not to get lost in that patient grey gaze. Had he not been tutored every day for the past month on how to talk to noblewomen?

“If – since you’re here, and I’m here, and we both need to get to the ceremony, would you like to, um, go together?” he asked.

“It would be just as well,” she answered, after a pause where he feared she might decline. “One is only running late if one arrives _after_ royalty, after all.”

Alistair stiffened, trying to work out if the bite in her words was contempt or simply misjudged humour, but the moment passed. Their guards were watching and an offer once given could not then be refused – that much, he had learned from his tutors. He offered his arm, watching sidelong as she slipped close to him and laid her hand featherlight over his. Teagan’s words echoed in his mind. Was that a line of tension in her shoulders, and shadows under her eyes cleverly hidden with powder? A waft of some floral scent from her hair settled in his nose, and as they descended the stairs together, he found his mouth too dry to speak.

“You know,” she said when the silence stretched, “Someone told me not so long ago that thinking of a good meal helps the nerves when beset by nobility on all sides. And there’s a feast later, to help the imagination along.” Her tone was mild, but he caught the edge of the smirk she levelled at him. Perhaps there was still a chance for him after all.

“Now that sounds like wise advice.” He grinned. “Where did you hear that?”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly recall.”

Silence fell between them again, the distance of the past few weeks cooling the warmth of her palm resting against his sleeve. Her brows were drawn together, her mind once more drifting towards whatever problem had absorbed her before they stumbled into each other. Alistair’s stomach twisted. He licked his lips, an unpleasant crawl of guilt across his shoulders. _Who can she confide in?_

“Uh, Rosslyn?”

“Mm?”

Too late to tell her his secret, but hopefully not too late to apologise and explain and hope forgiveness for his cowardice.

“Before we get to the chantry, there’s something I’ve been –”

“Ho, there he is, the man of the hour!”

Waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs, Cailan stood resplendent in an outfit of layered cream and gold, with an intertwined embroidery of dogs added in copper silk threads across the chest. The effect was about as dazzling as the smile he levelled at the two of them, bright enough to almost distract from the crow’s feet creeping into the corners of his eyes.

Rosslyn recovered first. “Your Majesty. Have you been lying in wait?” Her entire posture changed as she floated down the last few steps to join him, her shoulders thrown back to add an elegant stretch to her neck, her lips touched with a pleasing smile to match the charm in her voice.

_It’s an act_ , Alistair realised as he dumbly followed after, chewing the insides of his lips to hold back the curse that threatened to burst out. If Cailan had held off for just a few more moments…

“Ha! You caught me,” the king chuckled. “But I may be gratified by the result, when I see such beauty before me. And what do you think, my dear?” he asked, turning her around with the lightest touch of his fingers so that she faced Alistair where he stood at the bottom of the steps. “Bann Ferrenly’s tailor has done wonders, has he not?”

Rosslyn’s face was impassive as she ran a critical eye over his attire. “I rather think the man was glad to have such an easy subject,” she replied eventually, with a detached amusement that made Alistair want to fidget with his sleeve.

The king laughed again. “True enough! Ah, but let’s have a look at you,” he added, stepping forward to check the clasps that held Alistair’s doublet closed.

“There’s really no need –” Alistair began, but trying to dissuade Cailan from any course of action was futile, leaving him no choice but to stand and be cossetted in a manner that would have been unimaginable even a month ago. The brief eye-roll he sent in Rosslyn’s direction brought a spark of mirth to her eyes, and his stomach fluttered in response. _After the ceremony,_ he promised himself. _And certainly before the end of the day. I’ll tell her._

* * *

 

The thought still burned in his mind as he stood at Cailan’s side with a glass of chilled white wine in his hand, trying to smile and remember the names of all the gentry who came to mingle with them on the green while they waited for the final preparations to be made to the guildhall, where the feast would take place. His conduct during the ceremony was complimented, parroted by almost every mouth in a way that suggested they were disappointed he had remembered to say all the right things and hadn’t tripped once over his own feet during the procession out. The part of him not bored out of his mind found amusement in the fact there almost seemed to be a queue forming to talk to him, as if until this very moment none of them had actually quite believed Cailan would go through with the scandal, but truthfully, lulled by the blandishments, the faces passed him by in a blur. And the one he wanted to see was not among them.

“Am I boring you, Your Highness?” Arl Gallagher Wulff raised one hoary eyebrow.

Alistair startled. “Of course not, my lord – not at all. It sounds like your arling is in good hands while you attend His Majesty.” There, under the oak, talking to a short, grey-haired man with a pointed goatee, and a striking woman in green damask who held lightly to his arm. “Will you please excuse me? I, uh, realised I haven’t paid my respects to Bann Ferrenly yet.”

He had to sidle through the press of bodies, deflecting conversations that tried to snag him and slow him down, though most of the nobles, relaxing with their wine, seemed happy enough to let him pass. He was almost in reach of Rosslyn when he caught the sound of his name, though when he turned to look, he realised Bann Auldubard had yet to notice him.

“Such speculation on _that_ subject is completely unfounded,” the man sneered. “The Falcon and the Rose? Don’t make me laugh.”

“Why not?” asked another, whom Alistair didn’t recognise. “There have been worse matches, and the rumours…”

“Ach, don’t trouble yourself,” said a third. “Our Bann of Crestwood here is just sour because the lady turned _him_ down flat. Give it up, boy, she has higher sights to set than you – a prince, no less.”

“A commoner,” Auldubard groused. “When this war’s over and Loghain is swinging from a gibbet, how long do you think this charade will last?”

“And would it make you feel better or worse if our Lady Falcon tilted at the king himself? They did arrive together, arm in arm.”

Alistair turned away, his ears burning. He had no desire to show himself, to let them know he had eavesdropped on their remarks. Besides, Rosslyn stood not twenty feet away, close enough for him to see the curve of a gentle smile lighting her face, and the pale column of her throat stretch when she tipped her head back to take a sip of her drink.

Bann Ferrenly spotted him first. The man had flushed, rosy cheeks, and the nearly empty wine glass raised to beckon Alistair over went some way to explaining the cause.

“Your Highness! It is too hot out there, isn’t it?” he boomed. “Come join us here in the shade where it’s cool. We were just saying the master of ceremonies should have considered putting a pavilion out here for out benefit.”

“And I say the servers would have had too far to walk,” Rosslyn replied, looking carefully straight ahead. “The food would have been cold before it reached us, and that’s without any guarantee of the weather.”

“And consider, Husband – the flies,” added the serene Lady Raina, gazing at him fondly.

“The ladies have outflanked me.” Ferrenly pouted. “What say you, Your Highness?”

“Uh, well…” Alistair rubbed at the sweat on the back of his neck. “Apparently this feast is going to be seven courses – I’m not sure people would want to stagger the extra distance to their rooms.”

Ferrenly roared with laughter, the force of it so great that the last of his drink threatened to tip and spill across his wife’s dress. Even Rosslyn cracked a smile, though she hid it quickly behind the rim of her glass, and still refused to turn his way.

Lady Raina must have caught him looking.

“Doesn’t the Teyrna of Highever look well, Your Highness?” she preened. “Breeches and tunic might do for everyday wear, but they are hardly fashionable for high occasions.”

“I hardly think it possible Her Ladyship could look bad in anything,” he answered mildly, hoping for a reaction. She shifted her weight between her feet, and he noticed for the first time the skirts were an inch or so too short, revealing the hem of the white cotton shift beneath. During the ceremony, too, as she stretched her hand to the hilt of Cailan’s sword to recite her oath, the fabric had strained and pinched at her shoulders.

“And of course, I owe my current state to you, my lady,” Rosslyn said. “I was lucky you had a spare gown to lend me.”

“Nonsense, child. Your parents were dear friends.” Raina brushed her curtain of dark ringlets back from her face. “This is the least we could do.”

“Nevertheless, I’m grateful.”

“As is the king,” Alistair interjected, seeing how Rosslyn’s eyes tightened at the corners. He gestured over the green. “A lot more people would have been lost without your goodwill.”

Ferrenly toasted him. “It is always a pleasure to host our friends,” he said. “Though perhaps next time, you will be able to take your leisure in happier circumstances.”

“Of course. Ah…” Alistair steeled himself. “If possible, I would like to ask one more favour – may I steal the teyrna away for a few moments?”

She turned to him sharply, mouth pulled into a thin line as she searched his face, though the emotions flashing in her eyes chased each other too quickly for him to read. And then her mask slipped back in place, her gaze breaking away from his as she dipped low.

“I am at Your Highness’s disposal,” she said.

Alistair’s heart pounded as they retreated out of earshot of the rest of the nobility towards the village pond, silence drawn like a veil between them. A brace of ducks bobbed through the water, fluffy dust-and-yellow ducklings cheeping as they paddled to keep up. Shining ripples fanned out behind them like wings, offering a distraction from the tension.

“It’s going well so far, don’t you think?” he ventured when she finally halted by a bank of reeds.

“If we were in Denerim,” she replied, “every noble over the title of ‘Lord’ would have descended to apply to your good graces. The ceremony would have been twice as long and you would have had far many more sycophants to watch out for.”

“That sounds like the voice of experience.”

She fixed him with a flat stare. “It is. Is this what you wished to discuss with me?”

“I… no.” All the words gathered on his tongue evaporated. He swallowed, scraping his hand through his hair to disguise the sudden, overpowering weakness shooting through his limbs.

“We’ll be called in soon,” she prompted, brow furrowed.

“I know.” He growled through his teeth. “I barely know where to start. This all sounded so much better in my head.” Gathering himself, he raised his courage to look into her eyes, grey as a winter sea. “Rosslyn…” He cleared his throat. “There are some things that I –”

“There you two are!”

Alistair froze at the sound of the voice. He didn’t need to turn to know Eamon was cutting across the grass towards them, but propriety demanded he do so. His teeth gritted together to keep his snarl of frustration at bay.

“My lord,” he ground out.

“Your Highness,” Eamon replied, with the chiding note so familiar from Alistair’s childhood. “Everyone is waiting. It would not be prudent to linger for the sake of an idle conversation.”

Looking into the bland features of the king’s uncle, Alistair felt dread crawl up his spine. The old man might seem innocuous, but he had always been Maric’s shrewdest advisor, even more so than Loghain, and revealing anything about his personal relationships – whatever their nature – screamed of recklessness. And that was without considering what Isolde would do if she found out about his interest in Rosslyn.

Hating himself, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Nothing. It’s… nothing that won’t wait until later.”

Eamon nodded and turned, gesturing for them to precede him, his expression still serene.

“I suppose what you had to say to me wasn’t so important, after all,” Rosslyn said as she stepped past, her gaze levelled at the grass in front of her feet. Her cool tone sent a lance through Alistair’s chest. “We shouldn’t keep the king waiting.”

“No, wait…”

He stretched out his hand to call her back, but before he could reach her she was intercepted by a soldier wearing the Laurels – Captain Morrence, he realised. She laid her hand on Rosslyn’s arm and spoke into her ear, then paused, frowning, to listen as Rosslyn relayed sharp, muttered orders to her.

“What’s going on?” Eamon asked, when Morrence nodded and hurried away.

“Forgive me, my lords,” came the harried reply. A frown slipped down over Rosslyn’s features, her bottom lip pulled unconsciously between her teeth as she dragged her gaze away from her retreating captain. “Something urgent has come to my attention. Excuse me – I must give my apologies to His Majesty.”

“Your Ladyship, you cannot just –” the arl protested, but she was already striding through the crowd, the dainty constraints of formality giving way to her general’s march, her noble’s mask to the scowl of war, as she headed straight for where Cailan still stood talking to Gallagher Wulff.

Alistair watched as she bent the king’s ear, then saw him nod and clasp her arm in a gesture of support before she hurried away, leaving a fresh wave of gossip in her wake. When Eamon got his attention and told him to move, he did so numbly, his eyes lost on her figure hurrying over the green towards the infirmary. He shivered, blinked, and looked up, but the sky was still a flawless blue, the sun a blazing eye high overhead.

And even so he felt chilled to the bone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Alistair is finally a prince, he and Rosslyn can't catch a break, Cailan continues to get in the way, and then there's Eamon being... well, Eamon. 
> 
> Some of you might recognise aspects of the villagers' Summerday celebrations. Considering how heavily based Fereldan culture is on England/Scotland, I couldn't resist putting in a reference to Beltane/May Day, which is celebrated on 1st May and marks the official first day of summer in various places.
> 
> Are things going to get worse before they get better? What news took Rosslyn off so suddenly? Was she being unfair by being standoffish with Alistair? Big or small, all thoughts are welcome!


	21. II: The Windrise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair finally gets a chance to talk to Rosslyn alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Windrise, n. - a nautical term originally of Clayne origin, describing the increase in windspeed and other phenomena that precede the arrival of bad weather. As a metaphorical term, it relates to the circumstances leading up to a catastrophe.

_Second day of Bloomingtide, 9:32 Dragon_

Stifling a yawn, Alistair rubbed his eyes and made his slow, unsteady way towards his rooms in Bann Ferrenly’s house. The first stair creaked under his foot, chiding in the late-night silence, but nobody came to trouble him. The building’s inhabitants were either already asleep or still revelling in the king’s company, chewing over the final scraps of the feast in the guildhall. In the intervening years since watching guests parade in for Isolde’s endless _salons_ , it seemed the nobility had not lost any taste for long nights and loud noise. He considered himself lucky to have gotten away so early, though the sun had gone to bed many hours earlier still.

He had to admit, however, that the feast had been a magnificent affair. An astounding seven courses, each of which was presented with flourishes of showmanship to make any travelling circus master blush, brought in by a small army of servants groaning under the weight of the platters as they were shown around every table, before being presented to the king by a tiny man in the colours of a herald. Innumerable glasses of sparkling Antivan white had been pressed into his hand, the refills coming so swiftly that if not for the steadily growing buzz in his head, he would have doubted that he drank anything at all.

And after that, with barely time to let the food digest, the music had begun, lilting into the air to join the hum of pleasant, tipsy conversation. Another herald had appeared, presumably from somewhere, and announced the dancing. Knowing it would have been rude to refuse, and with Cailan watching on with that beneficent smile of his, Alistair had allowed himself to be passed into the arms of what seemed like every noblewoman in the room – daughters, sisters, cousins, and good acquaintances who all blurred together in ripples of variegated silks and gleaming jewels. They tipped glittering smiles at him from under the demure flutter of their eyelashes, giving him gestures that made him flounder like a landed fish.

And through it all, Rosslyn had not returned. He had kept one eye on the door, and the other on the guards, certain that at any moment the bright world of the party would smash apart like a dropped glass, swept away under the clank of marching, armoured feet. But he saw no sign of her. The music played on, and the laughter of the crowd lost all inhibition, and Cailan, on his fifth glass of port, told him to stop being such a sourpuss and spoiling the fun.

He paused on the stairs, waiting while Bann Ferrenly’s imported clockwork struck the hour. When it continued to chime far longer than expected, he realised he must have lost count somewhere along the way, but that in itself told him it was way past a respectable hour.

“Ugh, my head’s going to hurt in the morning,” he grumbled as he reached for the bannister to help haul himself up to the landing.

Should he knock on Rosslyn’s door? She was probably asleep already, and even if she wasn’t, if anyone saw him trying to talk to her so late at night, it would only add fuel to the speculation that had been ringing in his head since the morning before. _The Falcon and the Rose? Don’t make me laugh._ Something tugged at his chest but he pushed it down. The haughty look she had taken such care _not_ to give him before she was called away had been enough to douse any flicker of hope that he might be able to salvage her regard, let alone wonder if she might want more.  What bitter irony that, mere weeks ago, he had fantasised about being acknowledged, about gaining rank and privilege to be able to talk to her as an equal, about thinking a title would be all it took to make him happy. And now that very same title was the wedge that had driven her away. He had been a fool from the very beginning.

The thought carried him to his door. For a heartbeat, he paused, swaying, trying to remember the climb up the last flight of stairs, until he bit back a growl and fumbled for the handle. His rooms contained a feather mattress, a hangover tonic, and several thick, soft pillows to scream into if he felt so inclined, and after such a long day of disappointments and interruptions, that was all he wanted.

Then he heard raised voices.

Recognising the arguers, he paused, breath held to try and make out the words, but the wattle-and-daub walls of the old house muffled everything except the volume of the argument. Before he could chastise himself for letting his curiosity overcome his common sense, Alistair abandoned thoughts of his warm bed and crept across the landing towards Rosslyn’s chambers. She sounded more upset than angry, and still clear-headed enough to keep her voice level, though he could tell that control was fast crumbling away. As he neared, he caught a thread of exhaustion tangled in her anger, and he remembered her expression as she begged the king to let her go.

The guard on duty outside her door eyed him warily as he approached.

Alistair nodded to him. “Is everything alright, Sergeant…?”

“Hobbs, Your Highness,” the sergeant replied. “Nothing amiss – all’s quiet.”

From behind the closed door came the sharp scrape of a heavy chair against floorboards, and a thud as it toppled over.

“All’s quiet, hm?” Alistair checked.

Sergeant Hobbs blanched.

“ _Would you have me abandon them?_ ” Rosslyn’s voice, cutting clear and sharp through the walls.

“ _I would have you think of the bigger picture, lass_.” Ser Gideon – nobody else would dare address her in such familiar terms. “ _There’s no money, we have no army big enough to match what you propose. The only way you can help them now is by seeing this through to the end._ ”

“ _Their crops are burning! They won’t make the winter, let alone the spring. They’re dying._ ”

“ _This is the cost of holding to ideals. You gave your word. Your father –_ ”

“Is there any chance I could speak to Her Ladyship?” Alistair asked, his gaze flicking to the door as if he might see her through it.

“My apologies, Your Highness, but –”

“ _Oh, please do tell me everything my father would have done better. It does me such good to hear all my failings put into perspective!_ ”

“- Teryna Rosslyn is, uh, not in.” Hobbs shot him a pleading look. “She didn’t want to be disturbed, Ser.”

“I see.” He swallowed. Gideon’s voice had dropped to a low, uneasy hum, like a distant swarm of bees. The words were lost, but the conciliatory tone did not have its intended effect.

“ _Get out,_ ” she snapped.

“ _Bah!_ ”

Alistair barely had time to scuttle out of the way of the door before it was wrenched open and Gideon stood framed in the lamplight, bristling in full armour, a frown like a thundercloud carving deep lines into the contours of his dark face. He gave a jolt of surprise when he saw he had company, but proper decorum had never been one of his priorities, and he shouldered into the hallway with only the thinnest veneer of propriety.

“Maybe _you_ can talk some sense into her,” he growled as he stomped past. “Stubborn, headstrong lass, no appreciation for…”

The rest of the words were lost to grumbling as the Commander of the Highever Guard trudged towards the stairs. Alistair turned back to the sergeant, who had shrunk himself against the wall to avoid the wrath of his superior officer, and offered him a grin.

“You want to see the teyrna, don’t you?” Hobbs asked.

“Please.”

The man offered him a defeated sort of nod. “Very well. Follow me, Your Highness.”

Rosslyn didn’t look up at the sound of new footsteps. She sat, bent over with her head in her hands, staring glassy-eyed at the papers strewn over her desk. Some were letters, penned in elegant hands, and Alistair recognised merchant seals from Orlais, the Free Marches, and even Nevarra, though he couldn’t put a name to them. Around the room, vases of wilting flowers stood in silent condemnation, only adding to the drab, stale air of the room. He wondered when someone had last opened a window.

The sergeant clipped to a halt and saluted, but Rosslyn still didn’t look up.

“Call it a night, Will,” she said in a voice that cracked with fatigue. She still wore her finery from earlier in the day, but the glossy curls of her hair had long since fallen into disarray, the laurel blossoms drooping and half-loosed from their pins. “Everyone else is asleep, you might as well join them. I’ll finish up here.”

“Err…” For a moment, the sergeant’s expression softened. “His Highness to see you, Ma’am.”

She glanced up. When she spotted Alistair, the effect was like the shock of a lightning spell. She shot to her feet so quickly her thigh banged against the underside of the desk, jerking it violently, and her hand flashed to the inkpot before it could spill over her papers.

“Al– Your Highness – I wasn’t expecting you… uh, not so late.”

“It _is_ late,” he agreed, watching as she rubbed her leg and gathered all the letters together to place them in a small bureau at her elbow – hiding them from him. “I wasn’t expecting anyone else to still be up.”

“Yes, well…” She shook her head. “You may go, Hobbs.”

“Your Ladyship.” The sergeant saluted again. “Your Highness.”

“I didn’t realise you were still working,” Alistair said when the man was gone. He tried to keep the note of bitterness out of his voice. She might have come to the feast instead of holing herself away like a bear settling in for the winter.

“I work until the work is done,” she replied, shrugging. “Was there something you needed?”

“I…” A nervous hand ruffled through his hair. Confronted with the gaunt exhaustion robbing the warmth from Rosslyn’s skin, his mind baulked at unburdening even more worries upon her shoulders. As he searched for something to say, keenly aware that he was looking more and more like the village idiot as the silence stretched, he glanced down to her hands.

“You’re hurt.”

“What?” She followed the line of his gaze to the hem of her left sleeve, which was soiled by a dark, rust-coloured stain. Her eyes refused to meet his as she covered the sight with her other hand. “It’s nothing – not mine,” she said of the blood. “The messenger, he… well. It doesn’t matter now.”

“Rosslyn…”

“I’m fine – really.”

Unbidden, Teagan’s words from the previous morning ran through his mind, heavy with certainty. _She’s not sleeping, not eating either. Stubborn as she is, she won’t complain._

“Have you had dinner?” he asked. Blurted.

Her brows twitched in surprise. “Dinner?”

“Yes, dinner. That meal people tend to eat at the end of the day?” he teased. “You left this morning before the feast started.”

“Oh,” she replied, flushing a little at the concern in his voice. “I suppose I did, didn’t I? There’s been so much to do, there hasn’t been time to…”

Alistair sighed. _Hopeless._

“You’ll figure it out,” he promised. “Whatever this is, whatever’s troubling you. I know it. But,” he added, taking a step forward, “I also know that you can’t face anything properly on an empty stomach.” A plan was forming in his mind. The kitchens would still be warm, leftovers abundant, and so late at night, not even the scullery maids would be around to interrupt them. And afterwards, he would make sure at least some of the mountain of paperwork Cailan was foisting off on her found its way to him. His palms grew sweaty and he tried to wipe them on his breeches without her noticing.

Rosslyn bit her lip. “Your Highness, I –”

“Please don’t,” he said. “Everyone’s been calling me that. I rather miss being called Alistair… especially by you.” At her startled look, he stepped closer and swallowed his nerves. “You need a break. Let’s go and see if we can raid the kitchens for a decent bottle of wine and whatever table scraps haven’t already been taken to the kennels.”

“I wouldn’t want to keep you from your rest,” she replied, picking out a loose lock of hair to curl around her fingers.

“If you want, I can make it an order.” Alistair grinned. “I’m told I’m allowed to do that now. Please? I – I feel like we haven’t spoken in an age.”

For an instant, he feared she would say no. She glanced at the bureau with the letters in it, to the map, even to the pitch-black square of sky at the window – but then she smiled, a tiny thing weak as a candle flame in a storm, but at the sight of it an answering flare of hope surged in his chest.

“I know what you mean,” she said. “And maybe… I am a little hungry.”

“Then, my lady, would you care to accompany me?” Alistair stretched out his hand in a poor imitation of Cailan’s gallantry, but when she returned the gesture and hesitantly placed her fingers in his, he decided he couldn’t have been that far off the mark. She bit her lips to hold back a smile as he placed her hand in the crook of his elbow, and for a moment he was too giddy to move. The last time she had been this close to him, had _leaned_ into him, she had been badly wounded, not smelling of jasmine and rain on new grass. He wondered if she still had scars from that night.

“To the kitchens then?” she prompted.

“Right. Yes.” _How long have I been standing like a fool?_ “This way.”

They walked in silence. Not an awkward silence, exactly, but one that was loaded with the weight of the weeks they had spent apart. Rosslyn kept her gaze cast down, avoiding the uneasy glances he passed her as they descended the stairs, but she stayed close to his side, pressing into the heat of his body, and out of the corner of his eye he saw her gaze dart to him, only to dart away again onto some less charged part of the hall.

“So,” she asked eventually, flicking her tongue out to wet her lips, “how are your studies going? I hear Master Brantis only lets you out of his schoolroom to eat and sleep.”

Alistair laughed, grateful for the neutral topic. “And weapons practice with the royal guard, but he only does that because Lieutenant Mhairi takes her job _very_ seriously. Even when it means hitting me – I think she enjoys giving me bruises.”

“As long as you’re not the only one taking hits?” Rosslyn teased.

“Not so much anymore, I’m happy to say.”

“Good.”

There was a pause.

“And you?” he asked. “I never seem to see you these days except through a crowd of retainers.”

“I do well enough. Some things can’t be left to clerks.”

“And Cuno? I haven’t seen him for the past few days.”

“There’s a bitch in heat in the kennels.”

“Say no more.”

They carried on, limping through brief bouts of small talk, which flared like the prodded embers of a damp fire, and then fizzled out again almost immediately. The gardens were quiet as they stole along the path, a last rind of light still lingering to the west, while the two moons swung heavily, half-full on the eastern horizon.

“What do you think that is?” Rosslyn asked as they passed the green.

A few torches still flickered, leftovers from the feast, but when Alistair had left it not half an hour before, almost nobody remained at the table, and those that did had been cheerful, and sagging with inebriation. Now, a small crowd clustered outside the main entrance to the guildhall, not just nobles but villagers as well, roused from their beds by the commotion. Alistair couldn’t see much through the sea of people, but along the road he saw a ragged string of horses, travel-stained and skittish in the torchlight. Unable to tear his gaze away, he grasped harder for Rosslyn’s hand, disturbed by the memories the sight woke in him, but she was already striding away towards a pair of soldiers just come back from patrol who were wavering at the edge of the crowd, uncertain what to do.

“You there!” she barked. “What’s going on?”

The soldiers turned, and when they saw who was addressing them, they jumped backwards and shrank away as if meaning to turn invisible.

“Your Ladyship – I don’t – I, um – and Your Highness!”

“Clear a path for us. I wish to see what is happening.”

“Uh…” When Alistair didn’t offer any contradictory orders, the pair glanced at each other and straightened, their chests puffing out with the importance of their new assignment.

“Make way for Prince Alistair and Teyrna Rosslyn!”

“Go on, move!”

“Don’t barge people out of the way,” Alistair chided as the pair of them led the way into the throng. He slipped his hand into Rosslyn’s so he wouldn’t lose her, and a tingle went all the way up his arm when she flashed a glance back at him and tightened her grip on his fingers.

He blinked when the last line of villagers parted and Rosslyn led him into the great room of the guildhall. Golden light sloshed over the floor and up to the rafters, and around the room the leftover detritus from the feast lay scattered where it had been dropped, when the stunned nobles first realised the atmosphere in Aeylesbide had changed. They huddled against the far wall now, milling like rams cornered by a wolf as they stared at the small group of people crumpled on the floor before the king. The eldest was a woman, clutching two small children to her sides, while a second, younger woman knelt beside her, staring glassy-eyed at the floor. Their faces were unfamiliar, but the Portcullis embroidered in green thread on their cloaks, singed and caked with dirt as it was, sent a shock of recognition through him.

“It’s Élodie, Arlessa of South Reach,” Rosslyn whispered next to him, eyes wide and jaw set. “And that’s Habren. She’s a few years younger than me. What are they doing _here_?”

“There’s nothing left of it, _Majesté_ ,” the arlessa said, her Orlesian accent thick from exhaustion. “Nothing but flames.”

“ _Loghain_ did this?” Eamon demanded. He stood behind Cailan, in cloak and boots hastily put on over his nightclothes.

The arlessa shook her head. “Not Loghain, my lord. His hound, Ser Cauthrien. The loyal mongrel he found crawling out of a ditch. She has been winding through the smaller Bannorn to the north, but we heard nothing of the attack, not until they were outside our gates. And then they tore them down.”

A ripple ran through the onlookers. The fortress at South Reach stood on a steep, craggy hill overlooking the road to the Brecilian Passage, and during the Occupation it had been the focus of an intense rebuild by the usurper Meghren, in an attempt to block the rebels’ passage north after they took Gwaren. Not even Maric had ever dared lay siege to it.

“This is disturbing news indeed,” Cailan said. “South Reach is – forgive me, my lady, was – well garrisoned, especially considering Bann Elara’s forces were stationed there as well. How could Loghain’s force outmatch that?”

“He has roused the whole Bannorn against you, _Majesté_ ,” Élodie spat. “He has convinced them of your treachery, and that my countrymen are to be feared, and hated without exception. That mongrel bitch brought more than just Gwaren’s army with her to lay siege to my home. My husband…” Here the arlessa’s voice cracked, and she pulled her two younger children closer. “He told Bann Elara to act as a guard. We left her – _Créateur, pardonne-moi_ , we left her at the pass beyond Bloodhill.”

Cailan turned to Eamon. “Order a party out, a full cohort. At once!”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“It will do no good,” the arlessa growled as Eamon left the hall. “There will be nothing left of them. Nothing at all but ashes.”

Rosslyn wrenched her hand from Alistair’s. He shook his head to clear it of surprise, and when he looked again she was kneeling by the arlessa’s side, speaking to her in mumbled Orlesian. The older woman blinked, recognition shining clear in her eyes as she reached out to clasp the sleeve of Rosslyn’s dress. Whatever she said deepened Rosslyn’s frown into a scowl, and as her shoulders tensed Alistair recognised the signs of her rising battle blood.

She rose and turned to the king, who had summoned a chamberlain to prepare rooms for the arlessa and her family.

“How will you answer this?” she asked.

The hall fell utterly silent.

Cailan frowned. “For now, we will press onward, to Redcliffe, as planned. I will send scouts to find survivors.”

“And what then, Your Majesty?” Rosslyn answered. “What of Loghain, and those who have chosen loyalty to him?”

“They will face the king’s justice,” Cailan said. There was no trace of his habitual smile playing about his mouth, and this unaccustomed stillness made the gathered nobles shift uneasily.

“King’s justice?” she repeated, stalking forward. “You speak so lightly of it. This is the second time Loghain has proven he cares nothing for spilling noble blood, or slaughtering innocents in his quest for power. His fear of Orlais is nothing more than an excuse for his greed, and nothing is being done to curb his ambitions.” She stepped forward again, her voice ringing in the stillness of the hall. “What answer do you have for the suffering of those most loyal to you – first Highever, and now South Reach? It will not stop here, not until all of Ferelden is under the heel of this traitor and everything that you and your father before you worked to build is shattered to the foundations.”

Eamon emerged from the crowd and once more took his place at Cailan’s side. “Mind your tone, my Lady Cousland,” he intoned. “You speak to the king.”

She bared her teeth. “And not, _my lord_ , to you.”

“How dare you –!”

“Enough, Uncle.” Cailan raised his hand to forestall any further argument, drawing up to his full height. “I would have peace between you.”

Eamon’s mouth clicked shut, but the scowl he flashed Rosslyn was one Alistair remembered from his childhood, and not with fondness. With her attention still fixed on the king, she didn’t notice it.

“Teyrna Rosslyn,” the king asked. “What exactly would you ask of me?”

His gaze was steady, serene, and for a moment it seemed like she would back down, step away. Alistair found himself hoping she would.

“We have floundered for far too long,” she muttered eventually. “We’ve spent too long licking wounds already long past healing, and while we did we allowed this to happen.” She breathed deep to steel herself, and licked her lips, and sank to one knee, just as she had in the chantry barely a day before when she took her oath of loyalty.

“Your Majesty,” she said. “Give me command of the army. Make me the sword in your right hand, the shield on your left arm, and I swear I will not let this tragedy happen again. By my blood I swear I will strike back at this traitor who seeks to raise himself to power above what is his to claim. Grant me this,” she snarled, “and I will see to it this jumped-up peasant regrets the day he ever thought he could sit the throne of Ferelden!”

Silence over the nobles, all sound stolen in a single hush of breath so that the spitting of the torches cracked through the air like fireworks. All eyes were fixed on the two figures in the centre of the room, and even the light seemed to pull inwards, drawn by the weight of the moment and the knowledge that, whatever the outcome, it would turn the tide of the war.

Alistair turned his head away, jaw clenched and heart thrashing behind his ribs. Tears pricked at the corner of his eyes. Hearing the contempt in her voice for Loghain, the way she spat the word _peasant_ like a curse… But he was the only one who noticed, and nobody noticed him. He watched the hope light on the arlessa’s face and felt Rosslyn slip even further out of his grasp.

“Do this, Your Ladyship, and I pledge what remains of my army will be at your disposal,” the arlessa declared, straightening where she sat. “I am no warrior, but I have heard of your deeds, and I know you will see this justice done for my husband.”

“Thank you for such a show of faith, my lady,” Rosslyn replied, with only a slight tremble in her voice. The audacity of making such a demand of the king made her glad for kneeling, and whatever colour was left in her complexion fled.

They waited for Cailan’s answer.

“Rise,” he commanded at last, and his smile crept out from the corners of his eyes. “Rosslyn Cousland, Falcon of Highever, you truly are as fierce as your epithet. Very well. Who better suited to lead the charge against a king’s enemy than the person willing to stare down the king himself?

“Let it be known!” he cried, turning to the waiting assembly. “The Teyrna of Highever will be the spearpoint that strikes the heart of my enemies, the sword and shield that will hold aloft the principles of honour, courage, and duty by which we of Ferelden have lived and died for almost four hundred years. Let her be an example of honour to you. And let my banner bring you glory on the battlefield,” he added in a quieter voice as the nobles broke from their places and hurried to be the first to offer congratulations to the new commander-in-chief of the army.

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“You’ve come a long way from the little pirate who used to traipse after Fergus and I on our adventures through the orchards,” he murmured once the jostling had died down. “Your family would be proud of you.”

“I – thank you. It means a lot to hear you say that.”

Cailan chuckled and gestured for the arlessa to join him. “Now, I know that the feast is over, but these good people require respite after their long journey – no, my lady, I insist on entertaining you until accommodations are prepared. Will you join us, Rosslyn?”

“It’s a generous offer,” she replied with a tired smile. “But I can’t. I was already going to –”

But when she turned and looked for Alistair in the crowd, he was nowhere to be seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So you might have noticed this story now has a final chapter count. A lot of the details of the story are still unplanned, but the bare bones are now in place and waiting to be fleshed out, like those reconstructions of Neanderthal skulls you're always seeing on National Geographic. I am very excited about the direction I'm taking this story in, and the chapters I'm currently writing (I'm a little ahead of what I post), and I can't wait to share it all with you guys.
> 
> As always, I love hearing your thoughts, your theories, and any other thoughts you care to send my way!


	22. II: Talons and Briars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair and Rosslyn finally clear the air between them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is a bit of a rollercoaster - it's one of the ones I was looking forward to writing from the beginning of the fic, for reasons that should hopefully become obvious. Also with some beautiful art by the everlastingly talented brenna-ivy over on Tumblr!

_Fifth day of Bloomingtide, 9:32 Dragon_

The army made good time. Even after only four days into the march towards Redcliffe, the discipline instilled in the new recruits at the camp in Aeylesbide, and the technique of leapfrogging troops to give each squad a rest during the day, meant they were already approaching Lothering. It was no small feat, given that the soldiers also travelled with the king’s train and all their supplies. Most of the petty nobles had disappeared, of course, frightened away by the prospect of real war even as they promised Cailan their militias, equipment, and any other help he might need in the fight against Loghain. Even the hangers-on from Deerswall had retreated back to their strongholds, Franderel to watch the sea lanes on the Storm Coast and Auldubard and Loren to settle in against the threat of Ser Cauthrien’s growing army and any retribution from Howe. That left only Rosslyn, Eamon, and the king himself to command their force of nearly five thousand.

Alistair stabbed his signature onto the end of the document he was reading, so hard the nib tore through the paper, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. At his side, the lyrium glowstone he had unwrapped to fend off the oncoming night illuminated the dozen or so reports he still had to finish. It wasn’t enough. He had been trying to forget all day, and the day before, but it turned out not even hours of hard marching and a stack of paperwork as tall as his forearm could stop the misery looming in his mind like a flock of circling crows.

He should have known. Sooner or later, it would have happened, and he was a fool for thinking otherwise, for getting his hopes up and thinking they would treat him like an equal. Eamon had always thought him a nuisance, a stain on his sister’s memory; to Cailan, he was a pet, a new toy to be dressed up and taught how to walk for all the world to marvel at; and Rosslyn – well. There was no doubt anymore what Rosslyn thought of him.

Her words only echoed louder in his head.

The war meeting had been Cailan’s way to try and persuade his advisors to let him face Cauthrien head-on, without waiting to go to Redcliffe, and quickly it had become a battlefield of its own. They had no iron-clad plan, after all, so why not go forth and meet her, draw her out and end the war before the wheat had finished ripening? Despite his own misgivings, Alistair had kept his peace while the Teyrna of Highever and the Arl of Redcliffe both tried to dissuade him from such a rash action.

“It’s what Loghain wants. Cauthrien has the advantage of numbers, and if we go charging in she will have the field advantage as well,” Eamon had insisted.

“Such pessimism!” the king had scoffed. “I would have thought you would put more faith in me, Uncle.”

“Think, Your Majesty,” Rosslyn had enjoined, with eyes ringed by shadows and a scowl that deepened with every passing minute. “If you die or get captured, then we will all face charges of treason, and Ferelden will remain in the hands of a madman.” She had hesitated, eyes boring into the map. “Patience can taste bitter. I know. But we can’t afford to be rash. Ferelden will be no better off if we rush in without a plan and lose you.”

For an instant, it almost seemed the words would work, but then Cailan had drawn himself up, stiffening in his golden armour, and Alistair had seen the coming blow like the strike of a shield against a practice dummy.

“It appears,” Cailan had growled, “you are all intent on treating me like an imbecile, as if I do not carry King Maric’s blood in my veins.”

“Your Majesty –”

“You both forget, I have named an heir, and –”

“ _Mo chreach_ , Cailan!” Rosslyn had shouted. “Open your eyes! An illegitimate half-brother brought up from the guardhouse less than a fortnight ago is your rightful successor only so long as _you_ say he is, and how long do you think the Bannorn will follow him once you become Loghain’s puppet?” Her voice had dropped. She had leaned across the table and bored her glare right between Cailan’s eyes, the rest of the world dismissed.

“Blind optimism will not win this,” she had ground out. “And I am not having this argument again. This time, you _will_ follow the plan and you will _go_ to Redcliffe, where you will be safe, and you will let me carry out the task with which I have been charged without interference.”

Alistair sucked in a breath and shook himself from the memory, trying to refocus on the words on the paper in front of him. It was one of the logistics reports he had asked the quartermaster to redirect to him days ago, knowing that otherwise it would have appeared at the top of Rosslyn’s already heavy workload. Filling it out gave him a vindictive sense of accomplishment, as if he could gloat about still being an honourable person and doing her a favour, despite what she had said, despite the way she spat the words without a thought.

He had little memory of what had happened after her outburst. His ears had been ringing too loudly to hear Eamon’s reprimand, or Cailan’s bewilderment, and he had kept his sight fixed downward, burning a hole into Lothering’s dot on the map to try and rein in the sting at the corner of his eyes, the scald of his rage at the back of his throat. When the meeting ended, he had looked up once and found her staring at him with horror slack across her features, but he had left before she could say another word to him, and had been avoiding her ever since. He should have known. He should have listened to Isolde. The thought did not bring him comfort, but then he hadn’t expected the pain of rejection to be quite so sharp in the first place.

A shadow fell across the entrance to his tent. _She_ stood there, with another stack of papers in her hand, as if summoned by his thoughts.

“Alistair?”

“It’s ‘Your Highness’ now, I understand – at least, as long as Cailan _says_ it is.”

Her flinch sent a surge of vicious satisfaction through his chest.

“Of course,” she murmured. “Your Highness. Forgive me.”

His jaw clenched tighter. He did not look up. How dare she be so meek and mild when he wanted her to shout, wanted her to scream so he could scream right back? Where was all the sneering condescension, that haughty noble superiority that she had displayed time and time again when talking of duty, and _honour_ , and commoners knowing their place in the world?  

“I… There are some inventories here that were misdirected… where would you like me to put them?”

Still with his eyes on the report in front of him, Alistair pointed with his pen to the only clear space available on the lid of his trunk, next to where he had left the treatises Brantis the chamberlain had told him to study, which he had no intention of reading. She nodded once and followed his direction without saying a word, her timid, shuffling steps so different from her usual confident stride that he couldn’t help but stare once her back was turned, to check it really was Rosslyn standing in front of him and not some imposter under a glamour.

Dust from the road dulled the shine of her boots, and the hunched shoulders of her long blue coat, and he noticed a single piece of straw clinging to the curtain of her dark hair. She must have come straight from the stables after exercises with the cavalry, but she could have sent a servant with the papers, if she wanted. A tiny wriggle of guilt took root in the cracks of his anger, but he ripped it out with an inward snarl, and when she carefully placed her documents on the trunk, he focussed on dipping his pen in the inkpot so she would not catch him looking.

She paused. He kept his eyes down, stubborn, but his ears strained to catch every one of her movements, betrayed by the tap of a fingertip against the paper, the smallest rustle of cloth, and the heavy, halting breath she sucked in to steady herself. The scratch of his pen on the paper tapered off mid-word.

“I wanted to apologise,” she said. “For… the other day. At the meeting.” Another steeling breath, turned away so he couldn’t see her expression. “What I said was… it wasn’t a reflection of you, or how I think of you, and – I suppose – I wasn’t thinking at all, really. I just…” She swallowed and finally faced him, straightening her spine as if she were a recruit coming to attention before the drill sergeant. “I’m sorry.”

Silence pooled between them.

After a moment, Alistair noticed he had stopped writing and set his pen to the paper again, though the words he set down might have been ancient Tevene for all the attention he paid them. Rosslyn stood like a statue, her tension a palpable thing in the air as she waited for him to say something. How many times had that been him? Isolde had delighted in ordering him before her, making him stand in the middle of the room so she could stare her disapproval down at him. And Maric… he remembered again that winter’s day when his father had pushed past him like he was an ordinary servant, like he was nothing at all. He wanted Rosslyn to know what that felt like to have that silence wielded like a weapon. He wanted it to _hurt_.

She, however, was too proud for such a tactic. Her hands curled into fists at her sides when he continued to ignore her, and he heard the soft crinkle of her coat as she bowed formally to him.

“If that is all, then, Your Highness, I’ll wish you goodnight,” she murmured, voice thick with finality as she turned on her heel to go.

_Damn_.

“Are you saying you didn’t mean it?”

She paused in the entryway, puzzled. “What?”

“What you said the other day.”

“I…” She shook her head. “Cailan… doesn’t live in the real world. He thinks everyone is as noble as him, and that if he says something with a smile, the world will do what he wants, just like it always has. But people can only be what they are, and they can’t go against their natures.”

“I see.”

The look of horror she had worn at the meeting reappeared. “No! That’s not how I meant to say it.”

“But it is what you meant,” Alistair pushed. “No need to get into more detail – it explains so much.”

“About what?”

“How you see other people,” he answered, returning his pen to the tray next to the inkpot. “Or rather, how you see – what was it? Oh yes, people who ‘seek power above what is theirs to claim.’ Does that ring a bell?” He grinned, a feral gesture with no warmth. “Tell me, do you only think of Loghain as a ‘jumped-up peasant’, or am I included in that category as well?”

He remembered the words so clearly, the way they tore from her lips as she condemned the action at South Reach, but watching her expression now, he could tell she didn’t remember at all. Somehow that was worse.

“What are you talking…” Rosslyn paused, her mouth forming a little ‘o’ of recognition. “Alistair, you’re not –”

“Does it make it better or worse that I have a blood connection to someone who, in my experience, was never as great as everyone else seems to think he was?” He stood, no longer able to contain the agitation in his limbs. “I’ve been trying to work that one out for years. Always on my own, of course. Can’t have the royal bastard asking too many questions, after all. Not if he wants to avoid a knife in his back.”

“I never meant…”

“But you know, the thing is, I never expected that knife to come from _you_ , or that you’d be so good at twisting it. The look on your face when Cailan told everyone who I was, was it disgust? Because I couldn’t quite tell. It _certainly_ wasn’t surprise.”

“Oh please,” she scoffed, squaring up to him at last. “Do you think anyone at that assembly was surprised to find out you and Cailan share blood?” Another shake of her head. “Some might have questioned that he acknowledged the connection so openly, maybe, but not that it exists.”

“Oh, and that clarification makes all the difference!”

They stared at each other. Disbelief warred with the fury on Rosslyn’s face, her lip curling in the beginning of a sneer that intended nothing but malice. The desk and the four feet of ground that separated them yawned like a chasm, cut deep with the secrets, the misunderstandings, all the uncertainty that had shadowed them since the aftermath of West Roth, in the infirmary, when he had reached out to touch her and she had shied away.

“Nobody has _ever_ dared talk to me like that,” she snarled.

“Go below stairs, you’d get used to it soon enough.”

“Is this… is this the reason you’ve been avoiding me?” she hissed. “You think I’d object to you because of who your mother was?”

A bark of cold laughter leapt from Alistair’s throat. “ _I’ve_ been avoiding _you_?” he repeated. “You’re the one who won’t say two words to me – won’t even look me in the face! And now at least I know why – low-born, illegitimate half-brothers of kings are fine, but only if they remember their place. Isn’t that about the gist of it?”

It was Rosslyn’s turn to laugh. “I’m not even going to dignify that with a response!”

“What a surprise! Well then, _Your Ladyship_ , what exactly is your problem with me?” He stalked around the desk to face her properly. “What in the world could possibly make you despise me so much that you won’t even _talk_ to me?”

“You think I…?” The words stuck in her throat, no matter that she tried to shake them loose. She turned away, then back again, her mouth working without sound, her gaze skittering over him and away as if he were a bright light that burned her eyes, until at last she collected herself, and that dratted noble’s mask slipped down over her expression, and she made to step away.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said.

He pressed forward. “What doesn’t?”

“Just leave it alone –”

“Tell me –”

“No.”

“I order you to tell me!”

“ _Do you think me stupid?_ ” Her limbs shook, chest heaving with the effort of keeping the flood in check now the dam had burst, now that he had prodded one too many times. “I worked out what you were – ages ago – right after the battle – but I didn’t bring it up because I know you don’t like to talk about your past, because it would have been _ill-bred_ to pry, and I thought – I hoped you would trust me enough to tell me yourself.” A bitter chuckle bubbled up her from her chest, reined in only by the way her arms tightened around her stomach.

“Obviously I was mistaken. But why should I be surprised? You hate the nobility so much, it’s more of a wonder why you ever condescended to talk to me in the first place.”

Alistair rocked backwards at the venom in her words. _She knew. She knew and she thought…_

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh don’t play the fool _now_ ,” she spat, advancing. “You’re not that good at it even though you spend _so_ much time practicing. You’ve made it perfectly clear you think all nobles are tyrants, that we’re all spiteful and petty and only interested in having others break sweat for our comfort, _sitting at the top end of the table_. And here you stand, complaining about your privileges – but how many people hold their lives in your hands, hm? How many people will _die_ if you make the wrong choice?”

“Rosslyn –”

“ _I’m not finished_.”

His mouth clicked shut.

“You don’t know the first _thing_. How _dare_ you judge me? Do you think I give a damn that Loghain was born in a barn? Do you think it matters? Thousands have lost their homes, their loved ones, their _lives_ – because that son of a pig decided to grab power for himself rather than honour the bounds of the law. He had my family _murdered_ because he wanted all bars to that power out of the way, and now his lapdog Howe is running loose slavering at the mouth because Loghain promised he would get away with it!

“And _I_ should be stopping them. My family is dead. My father decided it was worth sacrificing an entire army in exchange for _my_ life, and what do I do with it, according to you, except sit here sneering at _your_ parentage while my people cower at the mercy of a madman, starving and _worse_.”

“I didn’t –”

“ _I DON’T CARE!_ ” she screamed. “I don’t care what you think – I don’t have _time_ to care what you think! What are you to me? How dare you stand there and judge me, as if I don’t know exactly what I am, or – or just how much everybody who looks at me wishes they saw my parents standing in my place. As if – it –”

She deflated then, folding in on herself as she clutched for the silver seal ring that had been passed to her for safekeeping, that didn’t fit her finger. Her gaze slipped from Alistair’s even as he reached for her, the silence between them roaring so loud he almost missed the choke from the tears held stubbornly back in her eyes. Yet even so she was drawing up, pulling away, smoothing into the posture and poise of the noble façade that would remain, untouched, even as the soul beneath it shattered like glass.

“Your Highness must excuse me…”

“Rosslyn, wait.”

His hand found hers. Her skin was cold, her battle rage spent. At the slightest tug, she went unresisting into his arms and he embraced her, tucking her away from the world and from his own selfish, sulking refusal to see how close she had been to breaking all along.

“It’s not your fault,” he breathed into her hair. “It’s not. None of this is your fault.”

Hesitantly, still fighting for control against the tide that threatened to swallow her whole, her hands slid around his waist to fist in the back of his shirt. When she mastered herself enough to speak, the words quavered against his neck.

“They – they’re all gone.”

“I know.”

“It’s just me.”

“I’m here.”

“I have no idea what to do but I – I can’t ask them because I’m the only one left.”

“It’s not your fault,” he repeated, and wound his fingers into her hair.

“But it _was_ me,” she protested, trying to pull away. “I took the cavalry and – and left Highever unprotected. I wanted to go to war – I didn’t want to be left behind. If I hadn’t – and then he told me to – but if I’d just –”

Words failed. Tears welled to choke her voice and all Alistair could do was hold her as she sobbed. Noble that she was, she made no sound apart from the harsh suck of her breath as her lungs did their best to burst, but she clung to him like an anchor nonetheless, and he stood there, and let her. Distant memories played in the shadows of his mind, nights when his mother would soothe away his childish hurts with a few well-spoken words, and he tried his best to remember them, to speak them into her hair. It was a clumsy attempt. So he held tight as each shake of her shoulders sent a rasp of broken glass against his conscience, an indictment of all his failings. He should have noticed. He should have tried harder. He should have listened to Teagan.

Gradually, the tears subsided into shuddered breaths, and then into the damp puff of breath against his cheek. Rosslyn’s grip loosened on his shirt as she relaxed into the hug, exhausted. He became aware of little things, the warm press of her weight against his chest, the tickle of her hair, the straight line of her nose cutting into the crook of his shoulder. A scent of sweat and sweetgrass and horses that he would treasure as long as he could remember it. Close as she was, surely she could feel his heartbeat thundering beneath his ribs.

“I lied, y-you know.”

“Uh…” Unknown panic crowded in his throat, but he swallowed it down. “About what?”

Her shoulders tensed again. “I… I do care what you think. I c-can’t bear the idea that you would think b-badly of me.”

Feeling the threat of tears once more, he wrapped his arms tighter around her shoulders and cradled the back of her head, anything to reassure her with touch what seemed so hard to say.

“I don’t,” he told her. “Maker’s breath, I’ve made a mess of this, but I don’t think badly of you – I don’t.”

With a wet chuckle, she pulled back, just enough to stand on her own feet, and made no complaint when his hands slid from her shoulders to settle at her waist.

“Even after this?” she checked, brushing her thumb over the tear-stained cloth of his collar. “I got your shirt all wet.”

“Whaaaat, this? This is nothing,” he assured her, craning down to examine the damage. “Once when I was still in Redcliffe the blacksmith’s boy spilled Barkers potion on my shirt – and that was when I only had _one_ shirt.” His nose wrinkled, remembering how the noxious odour of spindleweed had lingered for weeks.

“On purpose?”

“No,” he answered slowly, colouring at the unexpected sharpness in her tone. “At least, I don’t think it was. One of the arl’s horses was sick and it didn’t like taking medicine.”

“Hm.”

“Um… do you want to sit for a bit?” he asked. “You know, get your bearings back?”

She coloured a little, as if only just noticing that they were still wrapped together in a position some might consider compromising, but nodded. “Thank you.”

“Here.”

Taking her by the hands, he led her towards the back of his tent, where a couch had been set up for some purpose unknown to him. At the time, he had argued for a full half an hour with Brantis about the absurdity of bringing such a bulky item on a war march, but as he left Rosslyn to sink into the plush cushions and went rummaging for a bottle of something to steady her nerves, he was glad for once that, on matters of protocol at least, the old chamberlain was stubborn as a mule in a rainstorm.

“Here,” he said, returning with a large glass of apple brandy. “This should help.”

She wiped the last of the salt from her cheeks and took the drink, smiling a little when their fingers brushed. “Thank you.”

“No, wait –”

But she had already knocked it back. The amber liquid stung her face radish pink as it burned its way down her throat, the start of a coughing fit that only deepened the new, fetching tone of her skin.

“You were supposed to sip that,” Alistair chuckled as he rubbed circles between her shoulders to better help it settle.

“Hah – I noticed.” Did she lean just a little bit closer to him?

“More?”

“Please,” she replied, turning to hold up the glass so he could pour again, and then one for himself. “Ugh, what you must think of me…”

_I really want to kiss you._

He tore his gaze from her lips with a cough, laying the thought aside with the bottle before slouching backwards on the couch as if every nerve in his body weren’t jangling in response to the inches of empty space that separated him from Rosslyn Cousland.

“I promise it’s nothing too terrible,” he joked.

She shot him a wry glance. “That’s sweet of you to say.” Already the crumbled walls of her resolve were building again – he could see it in her eyes, the distracted stroke of her fingers along the side of her glass, the way her embarrassment for her outburst was trying to squeeze all the emotions back out of sight, to put the mask back in place, to carry on as before.

“What was your father like?” he asked, before he had fully formed the idea to speak. “I mean, I was just thinking it might help to, you know… talk about it. Them. If you wanted. If you think I’m intruding then I completely understand that it’s a stupid suggestion, and I’ll just save us both a lot of trouble and just stop… talking…”

It took a moment to process the fact that she had slipped her hand over his, that her expression when she looked at him brimmed with a sort of shy tenderness he had never seen her wear before.

“My mother always had fresh flowers,” she said. “Whenever my father left the castle to see to the estate, or on business, he would always bring back flowers for her.”

Warmth spread through Alistair’s chest that had nothing to do with the alcohol. “What kind of flowers?”

* * *

 

The flowers turned into fruit pies, and from there into dogs, then griffons, then dragons and foreign, far off places that might be worth the travel one day. At some point, they ended up pressed close, leaning into each other while their fingers trailed imaginary shapes across each other’s knuckles and the level in the brandy bottle slowly diminished. Rosslyn kicked off her boots and tucked her legs up to better snuggle against Alistair’s side, nodding now that tipsiness was succumbing to drowsiness and the idle play of fingers through her hair.

“Why didn’t you tell me who you were?” she asked into the silence.

On the back of her neck, the fingers stilled, contemplative when she didn’t pull away.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Before all this, it never really meant anything to me. I was inconvenient – a secret kept because I might be a threat to Cailan’s rule. I’d never talked about it to anyone, and everyone who knew either resented me for it or they coddled me.”

“Which did you think I would do?” There was no censure in the question, but the wound was still raw, uncomfortable.

“I wanted you to know,” he pressed. “But I didn’t know how to _say_ it. And I suppose… I was scared things would change.”

She shifted to better see his expression. “Things did change – but you’re still the same person.” She frowned. “You’re not keeping any other secrets are you?”

“Beside my unholy love of fine cheeses and a minor obsession with my hair?” he teased. “Nope. Just the prince thing. Sorry to disappoint.”

“I wouldn’t say I’m disappointed,” she replied, turning to gaze down at their laced fingers. There was that tender smile again, just creeping into the corner of her mouth.

“Hey, if it makes things less awkward, we could always go back to pretending I’m some nobody who just got too lucky to die on the battlefield,” he offered, before he could stop himself.

The smile disappeared. “If we did, what would that make me?”

“The reason I’d say I’m lucky.”

She stared. In the low light, her pupils expanded, swallowing the ice-grey of her irises until all that was left was a dark ring the colour of a distant storm. She wavered, a held breath poised on her tongue, but the moment passed, and Alistair sighed as she dropped her gaze and nudged closer to settle back against his shoulder.

“You’re probably one of the few people who thinks that right now,” she muttered.

“Is this about the messenger – the one who came on Summerday?” he asked.

A slow nod.

“What, uh, happened? If it’s alright to ask.” He heard her slow intake of breath as her grip tightened on his fingers.

“The scouts I sent back to Highever are all dead,” she told him. “They tried to attack the castle, but Howe caught them. The ones that escaped made it to a farmstead, but they were followed, and the rest made a stand so the message would reach me, and it did, but I don’t know what happened to the ones who stayed behind.”

“I saw the castle walls,” Alistair said. “Nothing short of a trebuchet could get through them. Why did they –?”

“They were trying to rescue my brother. There are rumours he’s still alive.” Her whole body tensed, her hold on his hand clammy now as she tried not to start crying again.

“Is there any chance they’re not just rumours?” he asked, as gently as he could. If there was reason to hope, then…

“No.” She growled it, staring at something he couldn’t see. “Fergus died at Glenlough. My father saw him fall. I… I can’t believe otherwise. I can’t. After what I saw there, better he is dead than Howe’s plaything. I hope they’re all dead.”

The admission shook her. She didn’t resist when Alistair let go of her hand and turned to pull her more fully against him, lending her his warmth and his strength as best he could. This time, she didn’t hesitate to slide her arm up around his neck.

“What’s this?” she asked after a moment, tilting her head to better see the pendant that lay against his collarbone where her movement brushed his shirt aside. “It looks old.”

“It was my mother’s,” he said. “It’s all I have of hers.”

“You were young when she died?”

He nodded. “I can’t remember her face. It’s like every time I try, a little bit of the memory flakes away. It’s all just blurs and warm, fuzzy feelings now.”

“You must miss her.”

Another nod. “Sometimes I wonder what she’d make of all this. There are so many things I’d ask her… about my father, and what she’d think of me being a prince. If she ever even wanted any of it for me.”

They fell silent again, content to savour this newfound closeness and listen to the quiet of the drizzle pattering on the tent roof.

“It’s not all bad, is it?” Rosslyn asked after a while. “Being a prince, that is.”

“Weelllllll,” he replied, drawing the word out. “The food’s definitely better – believe it or not, but you can get sick of boiling everything – and I must be doing something right to be lounging against feather cushions with a beautiful woman in my arms.” He wiggled his eyebrows, which made her chuckle.

“Beautiful, is it?” she teased. “Underneath all these mudstains and wrinkled clothes, you mean?”

He poked her gently in the ribs. “Oh hush, you know exactly what I mean. You’re ravishing, resourceful, radiant, uh…”

“Have you run out of words beginning with ‘R’?”

“Why, Your Ladyship, you _wound_ me.” He pouted. “Here I am, trying to shower you with compliments, and all you do is mock!”

With a mischievous tilt to her lips, she stretched up so her face, bright with blushing, rested a scant few inches from his own.

“Ridiculous,” she said, making a point to roll the ‘R’.

Her breath puffed against his lips, and it brought his attention tumbling down to hers. They looked so soft as they parted wider, like in his dreams, and he couldn’t help but be drawn forward. Fingers brushed against the back of his neck, responding, and his own curled at her waist, consciously light, restrained, yet delighting in the warmth of the body leaning up to meet him.

Outside, the guard on watch clanked past, calling out a low greeting to someone he knew, and the intrusion was enough to startle them into remembering that the world beyond the tent still existed. Rosslyn turned away, tucking her dark hair behind one ear, her lopsided smirk clamped between her teeth to stop it spreading into something more dangerous.

Her hands fell into her lap. “I should go.”

“I… yes. Of course, you’re right. It’s getting pretty late.”

Alistair scrambled to his feet and followed her outside in a daze. They didn’t quite touch, but the tension between them no longer stagnated, as if their argument had been a storm to sluice the air and wash their feelings clean. His heart already beat louder with hope, and with the demand to touch her again, to have her pressed close enough to smell her hair, to feel her breath over his skin and be reassured that after all the uncertainty, she wouldn’t want to go back to being just friends either.

She peered out at the rain. He was tempted to invite her to stay so she wouldn’t get wet, but she would have declined.

“Will I see you tomorrow?” he asked instead.

“We have another meeting with Cailan,” she reminded him. “I’d be grateful for some moral support, if you’d care to give it – I still don’t have a solid plan for Cauthrien. Some Commander-in-Chief I’m turning out to be.”

“Hey, you’ll figure it out,” he reassured her, breath catching when she leaned into the hand he placed on her shoulder. “Then when it’s all over we’ll be celebrating in Lothering with spit-roast pork and Cailan’s best cask ale before you know it.”

She chuckled. “Just don’t lay out a spread until after we win, or with our luck Cauthrien will just swoop in and steal it all from under our noses.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “Swooping is…”

“Alistair?”

He rubbed his chin, frowning. “Do you know, I might have an idea.”

“For Cauthrien?” she checked.

“Mhmm. I don’t know if it would – it would need some work.”

“Do I get to know about this secret grand plan?” Rosslyn asked, one fine eyebrow raised.

He looked down at her, distracted from his racing mind. “Well, you can’t expect me to tell you all my secrets, can I?”

“You told me not half an hour ago that you haven’t _got_ any more secrets,” she pointed out.

“Ha, you’re right. I did say that,” he answered. “You got me. Maybe if you’re nice, I’ll think of some more for you to pry out of me.”

“I can be nice,” she smirked.

Neither of them moved. Camp life, muted by the late hour and the weather, murmured around them regardless, a dull reminder that come sunrise, they would be at war again, getting ready to send men to their deaths for a cause they hoped was worth the price.

“I should thank you,” Rosslyn said as she turned to find her way back to her own pavilion. “For listening. I’d gotten so used to knowing my family was gone I forgot why I missed them.”

“Anytime,” he replied. On a sudden spur of daring, he made to reach for her hand, simply to squeeze it for reassurance or maybe to kiss her knuckles in the courtly manner Cailan managed so effortlessly, but at that moment he caught movement out of the corner of his eye and saw Eamon strolling past the next line of tents on some errand of his own, and caution urged him to halt the movement, though he didn’t quite know why.

“I suppose this is goodnight then?” he asked.

“I suppose so,” she replied. “Goodnight… my prince.”

He smirked and bowed formally to her. “Sleep well, dear lady.”

The colour that bloomed on her face was worth the bravery. As she turned and strode away to find her rest, failing to hide the giddiness of her smile, Alistair stood in the rain and felt his heart follow her, pinned by the tide of white light thrumming through his veins, and – he realised later, as he was climbing into bed – by the confident sway of her hips as she marched.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick word about Alistair's mother: the impression I got when I played Origins was that Alistair's mother (or the person he thinks of as his mother) died when he was a young boy, and not in childbirth as the guards told Goldanna. This makes sense when you think about the fact that Alistair would have been young enough to need a wetnurse when he first arrived in Redcliffe, and who better than one of the arl's servants who recently had a child stillborn? My headcanon is this woman adopted him and raised him until she died a few years later, and that's where he got the amulet. As it is, during this time in the DA timeline, Fiona is off doing enchanter-y things at the College of Magi, so she will not be appearing in this story, and that's also partly because I couldn't think of a good way to include her that didn't feel contrived.
> 
> Also don't mind Eamon, he's just a rickety old man with a weak bladder ;D


	23. II: Lothering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The royalist army prepares to face Loghain's general on the field.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Canon-typical violence; brief mention of assault
> 
> \--
> 
>  **The writing is well preserved with the faint scent of lyrium lingering in the ink, and bears the seals of the royal War Dogs of Ferelden as well as the Chantry Sunburst and other sundry seals of the witnesses who were present at the signing of the document.**  
>  "HERE BEGIN THE PRIVILEGES BESTOWED IN LOTHERING TO THE CHANTRY OF OUR LADY ANDRASTE, BRIDE OF THE MAKER, FROM HIS MAJESTY KING MARIC THEIRIN, UPON HIS ASCENSION TO THE THRONE OF FERELDEN, IN APPRECIATION OF ASSISTANCE RENDERED AGAINST ORLAIS IN THE ACHIEVEMENT THEREOF.
> 
> By the word of our Lady Andraste perpetually in our hearts, on this the fourteenth day of Kingsway in the Third year of the Ninth Age, as a reminder of the service rendered in the days of the Orlesian Occupation, I do hereby grant a small part of my land for the relief of the faithful of the Maker. Here is the boundary of my gift: from South Wall west along the road as far as Lake Luthias, and so north to Halmashold opposite Farthering Hill. The purpose of such shall be for the cultivation of canola for holy oil and the plantation and management of forest for the use of wood in funerary rites in accordance with the laws of the Maker.  
> Should anyone wish to increase my gift may good fortune reign through their days; if they should presume to diminish or oppose it, may they be damned within the sight of the Maker and our saviour Andraste, both in this world and the Fade, and made an everlasting outcast unless they repent that which they have done unjustly against the people of Lothering."
> 
>    
>  **\- A writ granting land to the chantry in Lothering, copy preserved in the Royal Archive in Denerim**

_Thirteenth day of Bloomingtide, 9:32 Dragon_

The day started hot, and only promised to get hotter. A bright sun spilled down on verdant pastures and the first golden sweep of canola in the fields around Lothering, glinting off the distant lake and soaking the country lanes with the pungent odours of hawthorn and elderflower. Birds chirruped in the hedgerows, and in the gullies of the network of run-off ditches that criss-crossed the area’s farmsteads, jewel-bright dragonflies darted like their much larger namesakes after their prey. Altogether, it made an idyllic image, except for the garish, looming presence of the king’s army camped on the village’s outskirts, all snapping pennants, gleaming spears, and churned, gritty mud where the soldiers had their training.

The sight of the camp added to the nervousness that stole into the peaceful life of the villagers with the trickle of refugees from the east. Ser Cauthrien was still rampaging through the Southern Bannorn, self-assured from her victory at South Reach as she tried to goad Cailan and his allies into meeting her in the open, but so far without success. Rosslyn, wary of allowing her soldiers to get restless, had organised contests and exercises to keep them distracted as they waited for the inevitable clash on the field of battle. It did Lothering’s inhabitants good to see the king’s forces at such strength, and the festival atmosphere of her war games had the added bonus of providing an excuse for the stockpiling of supplies they would need to enact Alistair’s plan to defeat Loghain’s most favoured general.

The thought made her smile. Alistair’s confidence had grown since the night they spent talking, and not only because when he had told the war council his idea Cailan had thrown his head back with laughter and clapped his half-brother on the shoulder. Her gaze – her approval – had been the one he sought as he moved sets of coloured counters like chess pieces over the map, and she had given it gladly.

With the way he looked at her these days, she still mulled over her outburst, ashamed of how she had scathed and shouted at him, the way she had lost control when her childhood lessons had drilled into her the need for composure at all times. And yet, her tantrum had ended in feeling his arms around her, with his hands threaded through her hair as she lost herself in the clean, pinesmoke scent of him. She had known he was strong from their sparring, but his gentleness in comforting her, his patience as she wept into his shoulder like a child, still brought a peculiar tightness to her breath whenever she thought about it. They spent more time together now, sharing space and casual touches, as if the air cleared by the storm of their argument had also swept away the barriers that lingered between them. She liked the warmth of his hand on the small of her back, and how easy jokes came to him as they ate breakfast or sorted through paperwork together, without the shadow of deflection and deference she had never noticed until it was gone.

Sat under the awning on the royal dais that overlooked the practice ring, her mouth curved into a smile as she watched him now. To change the pace from the established routine, Lieutenant Mhairi had proposed setting him up in an exhibition duel with one of the royal guard’s new recruits. So far the match was proving a success, having drawn a crowd of soldiers and locals both, and they watched avidly as the two barechested young men circled one another, Alistair with his customary sword and shield, and the dark-haired young giant facing him holding a greatsword he wielded with a raw expertise she had rarely seen.

They were evenly matched. Sunlight glinted off the sheen of sweat on Alistair’s shoulders, and Rosslyn noticed when he adjusted his grip on the hilt of his sword, working out the cramp in his fingers. At a shout from someone in the crowd, the young giant charged forward, his blade swiping upwards to gain the momentum needed to strike a crushing blow that, if it connected, would end the match. Even as she admired the recruit’s gall, Rosslyn tensed as Alistair parried the blow, focussed on the economy of his footwork and the smooth way his muscles bunched under his skin as he launched into an attack of his own.

“He’s doing well, don’t you think?” Cailan asked next to her. “I might have to tilt against him myself sometime.”

“There would be interesting odds on that fight, Your Majesty,” she replied, dragging her eyes from Alistair’s form. “But it might be best to keep such an event out of the public eye.”

Cailan gave her a scandalised look. “You doubt my skills, my dear?”

“Maybe I just don’t want to see either of you injured for the sake of pride,” came the easy retort, and he laughed.

“Well said! I wonder if –”

He was cut short by a cheer from the locals as the giant, beaten back into a corner, spun on his heel and struck out with such force Alistair was knocked off his feet. A lesser warrior would have stayed down, but he rolled backwards and back up into a guard, shaking his head to clear the sweat and grit from his eyes, taking in the way his opponent had stabbed his sword into the sawdust and was leaning against it like a walking staff.

“Break?” he called breathlessly.

“Sounds good,” the giant gasped back, grinning.

They straightened and parted, turning to opposite sides of the ring. By the time Alistair reached the trestle table set up beneath the king’s banner, Rosslyn was already there, pouring water from a pitcher into a pewter cup. She offered it to him, and their fingers brushed. That odd flutter settled in her chest again. He smiled, noticing her reaction, but the hot day and the exertion together were enough to make his limbs shake, so he rested his weight on the fence next to her as he drank.

“Not bad, I reckon,” he said, tilting his chin towards where his opponent was reluctantly letting himself be fussed over by two young women who shared his dark hair and broad, square features.

Rosslyn hummed her agreement. “He has talent. With a bit of work, the royal guard might turn it into skill.”

“Is Cailan enjoying the show?”

“His Majesty is champing at the bit to be let loose on you, so I’d say so,” she answered. Her hands rested lightly on the railing, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his bicep, to smell the sharp tang of sweat. It darkened his hair to a deep, russet brown, and as she watched, a bead of moisture rolled down from behind his ear, following the strong tendon down his neck until it was halted in the hollow behind his clavicle.

“And are you?” Alistair asked. “Enjoying yourself, I mean. We’ve already done the sparring bit.”

She blinked, shifting her gaze to make sure he saw her bland amusement and not her new fascination with the slow heave of his chest as he caught his breath. “And you think the outcome wouldn’t be different if we had a rematch? You won by luck last time, and now I know all your weaknesses.”

He leaned closer, eyes crinkling in a rakish smile. “Is that so?”

“You drop your elbow when you block, which leaves your arm in a weaker position to follow through and means you have to step out from behind your guard when you strike forward. It leaves you open on your off-side.”

“Well someone was watching my _very_ closely,” he teased, taking in the smug cant of her smirk and the relaxed slope of her shoulders. Perhaps the flushed shade of his cheeks darkened a little as he cleared his throat and turned away. “Any other insights?”

She glanced at him. “Cailan will never let you hear the end of it if you lose.”

“That’s very helpful,” he called after her as she backed away from the rail.

“ _En garde_.” She nodded towards the far side of the ring. His opponent had raised his sword again to the shouted encouragement of his sisters, and Alistair had no choice but to imitate the movement, with only enough time to throw a wink over his shoulder before he jammed his helmet back on his head and took up his weapons again.

Shaking her head, she turned and headed back to her seat, letting the crowd part before her, determined not to bend her dignity by turning back to watch him when the first harsh exchange carried over the cheers of the crowd. The king was waiting for her, after all.

She had just put her foot on the bottommost step of the dais when a disturbance at the nearest guard post caught her eye.

“Please, you don’t understand,” an older woman was saying. “I _have_ to see the king.”

“You can bring your grievance to His Majesty in petty court, like everyone else,” the guard responded, not unkindly. “He always makes sure he hears every petition.”

“No, I have to see him _now_ – it’ll be too late otherwise!”

“What’s going on?” Rosslyn asked, stepping forward. “What’s your name, messere?”

The woman’s face went slack for an instant before she recognised who was addressing her. “Oh – Lady Falcon – I mean, Miriam. _My_ name is Miriam. Please – I need your help.”

Rosslyn nodded. “What’s happened?”

“I was gathering herbs with my friend – she’s one of the lay sisters from the chantry, and some men – they think she’s an Orlesian spy, they took her. I don’t know what they’re going to do. I ran here as quick as I could. Please, Lady, if you can help –”

Rosslyn held up a hand to forestall any further delay, and turned to the guard who had been blocking Miriam’s progress. “Send Captain Morrence to me,” she instructed. “Tell her to bring my sword. And make my apologies to the king, tell him I have a personal matter to see to.”

“At once, Your Ladyship.”

* * *

 

Eamon watched as Rosslyn strode away from the crowds, with her dog and her half-elven captain at her heels, accompanied by a woman in the garb of a simple healer. He had seen the way she and Alistair talked down in the training ring and that, coupled with the fact that she was now leaving on some errand, without even bothering to tell the king in person, made him more certain that what he wished to discuss with Cailan had to be done sooner rather than later.

“Your Majesty,” he ventured, clearing his throat. “Might I –”

Cailan turned to him, though it was clear the majority of his attention was still on the match.

“There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

“Well, talk then!” Cailan said.

Eamon hesitated. “It would be better to go somewhere more private, so that we are not overheard.”

“And I suppose you think now is a good time because everyone else is distracted?” The king raised an amused eyebrow and chuckled good-naturedly when Eamon nodded. “I never could fault your logic, Uncle – and you have such a serious face. Very well, let’s have at it, but you’re going to be the one explaining to my brother why we vanished just when he was on the cusp of a glorious victory.”

Eamon pursed his lips and kept his silence as he followed Cailan off the dais and through the rows of tents to his own pavilion. When the king stepped inside, he dismissed the guards posted on watch at the entrance, and made sure they were gone before he followed.

“Now then,” Cailan said, easing himself into a cushioned chair. “What is this all about? You have already noted your objections to this plan we’re undertaking, but I am convinced it is the best course, considering the threat we face. And I know you wouldn’t bend my ear to the same arguments twice, would you?”

Eamon allowed himself a wry smile. “Your Majesty is clever to realise I still have… reservations about what Prince Alistair intends to do here. You are right, however. My concerns are on another, albeit somewhat related matter.”

“Out with it, Uncle,” Cailan said. His open expression faded into a frown. “I would have you speak plainly.”

“Very well.” Eamon clasped his hands behind his back. “I have concerns about our new teyrna.”

“Rosslyn?” The king poured himself a brandy, and offered another one across the table. “I can tell you’re serious, but I cannot imagine why. What reasons could you have to be leery of her? She has only limited experience in the role, I’ll grant you, but she’s sharp, and her ability as a commander has been proven. Maker’s breath, she doesn’t even fear putting _me_ in my place.”

“That is my concern, Your Majesty,” Eamon replied slowly. He swilled the amber liquid in his glass as if he could use it to divine his next words.

“Out with it, man.”

“You don’t think she is a little… headstrong?” he asked, taking the adjacent seat to the king. “Lady Cousland is young yet, but impetuous, and the independence she is allowed only makes her more confident – please, hear me out, Nephew,” he added, when Cailan opened his mouth to speak. “My worry is that she may overstep. Her actions on Summerday show that she has no compunction standing for herself, nor claiming the loyalty of those around her, and since then she has made demands of you and your resources without any regard to her place as your subject. This plan she has concocted for Ser Cauthrien is only one example.”

“I thought this plan was my brother’s idea,” Cailan mused, his frown deepening.

“Of course, Your Majesty, but think – I fear the young teyrna might enjoy an undue influence over His Highness. She may yet learn to use that influence to further her own ambitions.”

He watched as Cailan stroked his beard, jaw working as he figured out how to respond to the caution. Of course the warning would not be favourably received, but it needed to be said, if only to make the king aware of the dangers Rosslyn and Alistair both might pose if given too much free rein.

“Really, Uncle,” Cailan huffed eventually. “You make her conviction sound like treasonous plotting. The Couslands have always been loyal to the Crown, even when it would have been in their better interests to side against us, and Rosslyn is a Cousland through and through.”

“It’s not her conviction that worries me, but her independence,” Eamon insisted. “She has made quite clear her desire to avenge her family. If the time comes, and a conflict arises between following you and justice for the people of Highever, then I fear the consequences of taking her loyalty for granted. It may well be what wins this war, and at the moment her allegiance to _you_ seems rather dependent on your doing what _she_ wants.”

“Uh… excuse me, my lords?” A young boy dressed in the feathered black of one of the raven master’s runners poked his head inside the tent, his expression decidedly nervous. “S-sorry to interrupt, only I was told to bring this to His Majesty right away.” He waved a small package wrapped in soft, blue-dyed leather over his head for emphasis. “The messenger is waiting by the picket lines and will take any response back should you wish to send one – he said.”

Wordlessly, Cailan held his hand out for the package and the boy shuffled forward, careful to keep his eyes downcast, as if he could feel the disapproving stare Eamon levelled at the back of his head. He bowed as properly as he could, waiting only for the briefest gesture of dismissal before he scuttled back out into the sunlight, away from the private tension between the king and his advisor. Cailan barely noticed; his gaze was still fixed coldly on his uncle as he unpicked the knot that had kept the letters safe along their journey.

“Watch what you say, Uncle,” he warned in a low voice. “I do not like hearing my allies accused of treason, and you forget that the people of Highever are my people too.”

“I just think it would be better to be safe than sorry,” came the careful reply.

“I take it that means you have a solution to this imagined problem?”

“More a proposition, Your Majesty. One that would benefit Ferelden as a whole, given the precarious nature of politics these days,” Eamon said, waiting while Cailan read the missive in his hands. It was written on thick, lavender-coloured paper and bore an ornate personal seal stamped in golden wax. Whatever was written there seemed to satisfy him, but he folded it and lay it to one side before he could be asked about its contents.

“I’ll hear it later,” Cailan decided. “For now, I must write sanctions to the bannorn on the western shore of Lake Calenhad. We’re expecting guests.”

Eamon glanced at the letter and licked his lips. “ _Orlesian_ guests, Your Majesty?”

“A contingent of chevaliers and five hundred pikemen,” the king replied. “I took your recommendation for a mercenary corps to match Loghain’s seemingly inexhaustible forces. He won’t be expecting _that_. And after the hiding we give Cauthrien here, it’ll give us enough punch to march straight to the capital. I sent word that they should meet us at Redcliffe, but I think it would sooth any panic if the people along the road knew they were coming.”

The last of the brandy swirled in Eamon’s glass as he contemplated this new information, and the consequences that might arise from having foreigners fight a civil war. It was nothing Loghain had not already done, but then the usurper regent was not the one fighting through an accusation of collusion with an enemy power.

“I’m sure Isolde will be happy to receive them,” he said. He drained his glass and set it down, content for now to wait to set his own plan in motion. In some ways, letting Cailan think over his concerns regarding Rosslyn’s allegiances might prove more useful in the long run; he might start to see her as he should, as a wild-caught bird that needed watching lest it turn and bate at the hand holding the jesses.

He would wait, and he would see.

* * *

 

The thugs who had captured Miriam’s friend were not troubling to lower their voices. They had moved deeper into the woods from the glade where they had startled the two women picking herbs, but in the fight to capture her at least one had been severely injured and Cuno tracked the blood trail with ease.

“Just ‘anging’s too good for ‘er – bitch killed Mikey, and I want payback,” one voice leered. “Why not make ‘er sing first? Or ‘ave a bit of other fun?”

“You blind, fuckwit?” another chided. “Spy or not she’s still in Chanter’s robes, and the Maker looks after his own.”

“If all you was going to do was come ‘ere and piss yourself like an old woman, why’d you bother coming along at all? Maybe I should –”

“Gentlemen.”

 The six men in the clearing turned at the cold steel in Rosslyn’s voice. She took stock of them in an instant, farm hands little better than vagrants, with blunted, rusty weapons and lax, sallow faces that spoke of too many hours spent soaking in ale. The red-haired woman they had captured sat ignored at their feet, bound and gagged. There was a thin trickle of scarlet blood tracing a path down the side of her face, but otherwise she seemed unharmed.

“Push off, wench,” the burliest of them scoffed at her. “We an’t got no quarrel with you.”

Cuno growled, a low, black rumble that accentuated the sharpness of the teeth he bared at them. Rosslyn laid her hand on his head to silence him and slowly stepped forward, her sword easy on her hip.

“Oh shit, don’t you know who that is?” The youngest of the band turned to the others. “That’s the Lady of Highever. We’re for it now.”

“You stay put,” the leader growled, before slicking back his greasy hair and offering a deep, flourishing bow to the approaching noblewoman. “Your Ladyship, such a honour,” he purred.

Rosslyn ignored him in favour of the one who had recognised her. “Explain to me why this woman is a prisoner – don’t look at him. Answer me.”

“I… well…” the young man gulped. “She’s a spy, um. Your Ladyship.”

“She looks like a Chantry sister to me.”

“That’s what she wants you to think!” the leader snarled. “And meanwhile she’s off gathering secrets. We’re doing honest work, we are!”

“Be quiet.” She glanced at the band’s leader but offered him no more of her attention. “You will release her, and then you will go back to wherever it is you came from before I decide to make your conduct a case for the magistrate. Attacking members of the clergy is seen as a rather serious offence, I believe.”

“Of course, Your La–”

“Shut it, you!” the leader snapped. “We’re only doing our duty as good Fereldan citizens, more’n that Feather-lover yonder ‘as ever done. An’ you’re just as bad,” he added with a sneer. He stepped forward, and with his movement the rest of the group shifted, spreading out as their hands went to their weapons, but Rosslyn didn’t move.

“Lettin’ this bitch go when she killed one of our own? I don’ think so. And I ‘ear Loghain ‘as a pretty price out for your ‘ead while we’re at it. It’d set us up for months.” He leered. “Should’ve brought more’n a knife-ear and a dog, girlie.”

He lunged. She drew her sword and swung away, striking as she turned. Another raised a bow, arrow already knocked, but Cuno got there first. His jaws clamped on the man’s wrist, severing flesh and tendon with trained precision until the limb dropped, torn and useless, and he reared up to cut off the man’s screaming at the throat. A pair rushed Morrence, trying to drive her back, but she pulled a dagger from her belt and parried, more than a match for their sloppy technique.

The leader crumpled to the floor. Blade stained red, Rosslyn barely had time to turn before the remaining two were on her. They fought in desperation now, knowing that their only chance to escape punishment themselves was to kill her, but they were poorly suited for the task, and only their frenzy had kept them alive so far. They used their swords like clubs, and though she lacked the protection of armour their movements were easy to predict, and easier to counter. One struck straight for her heart but she dodged and punched him in the nose, using the opening to plunge her blade into his chest. She felt the steel scrape against bone, and for a moment she was pulled down with the man’s dead weight, unable to wrench it free.

“Look out!” Morrence shouted.

She caught the flash in the corner of her eye. She turned, sword-hand empty, ready to throw herself bodily on her opponent if it meant robbing him of advantage, but when she looked up he stalled, a look of shock wide upon his face. A white-fletched arrow protruded from his throat, straight through the larynx so he could not scream. He clutched for it, staring at Rosslyn as if to ask her help, but she only watched, breathing hard as he sank to his knees and finally collapsed with the last of his life gasping from his body. Only when she was sure he was dead did she turn to track the path of the arrow.

The red-headed Chantry sister stood by the maimed corpse of the bowman, still in an archer’s stance, with the cut remains of her bonds dangling from her wrists and a look of pure contempt curling at her lip. Morrence was already striding towards her, bloody sword in hand and suspicion in her narrowed eyes. Cuno trotted after, head held low and hackles raised.

“I was going to ask whether you were alright, but it seems I have my answer,” Rosslyn said as she went to retrieve her sword. She watched as her dog sniffed the stranger’s skirts, then huffed and threw his rump against her knees in a clear gesture of affection.

“He wants you to scratch his shoulder,” she explained, when the chantry sister didn’t move.

“Oh. I am… not used to such big dogs.”

“What’s your name?” Rosslyn asked, masking her surprise at hearing the flat vowels and rich consonants of someone who clearly did not come from Ferelden.

“Leliana, Your Ladyship,” came the reply. “I’m a lay sister in the Lothering chantry.”

“And yet you can shoot like that?” Morrence demanded.

Leliana turned to her, indignation colouring her cheeks. “Not everyone is given to the Chantry as an infant. I can assure you I am not the only one in service to the Maker who has a more colourful past.”

“‘Colourful’?” Morrence repeated. “You didn’t hesitate for an instant when you shot that man.”

“Would you prefer that I had?”

Rosslyn cleared her throat before her captain could retort. “I take it your accent is what brought these fools to the conclusion that you are an Orlesian spy?”

The chantry sister considered. “I never met these men before today. It is possible they heard me talking to the revered mother or to one of the templars.” She smiled a little as Cuno gave her hand one last lick and went to snuff at one of the bodies, but the expression quickly sank into a frown.

“Please, don’t think me ungrateful, Your Ladyship,” she said. “You have saved me from a most unpleasant fate, I think. But how - why?”

“Your friend Miriam told us what happened and led us to find you,” came the reply. “She’s waiting back on the trail, if you’re well enough to walk. We can send someone later to pick up the bodies and bring them to the revered mother for cremation.”

Leliana glanced at the man she had shot. “I still don’t understand why you would concern yourself with me.”

“Do you make a habit of questioning the motives of those who help you?”

The three of them fell into step, with the dog close behind. Morrence still had yet to sheathe her sword. She watched as Leliana pursed her lips, searching for a response.

“I find most have their own reasons for doing so,” the sister confessed eventually.

Rosslyn raised her eyebrows and sighed. “Those criminals thought themselves above the king’s law and decided their hatred was justification enough for murder. I don’t like it when people let their spite get the better of them.”

Before Leliana could answer with more than a pitying look, Miriam spotted them through the trees and rushed forward with a cry to gather her friend in a crushing hug. The distraction allowed Morrence to sidle close to Rosslyn’s side, though her baleful stare never left their rescued captive.

“What do you intend to do with her?” she asked Rosslyn.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“We have no idea who this woman is,” she insisted. “For all we know, those idiots might have been right and she is a spy.”

Miriam overheard them and let out a loud, derisive huff. “Because she’s Orlesian?” she cried. “Utterly ridiculous! My wife is Orlesian – would you accuse her of being a spy?”

“Could your wife shoot a moving target dead to rights at fifteen paces?” Morrence shot back. “I’ve only seen such skill with a bow once before – and Eleanor Mac Eanraig didn’t gain her skills in a cloister.”

“But you can’t seriously think Leliana –”

“Enough,” Rosslyn snapped. She had not expected to have to kill today and it left her more rattled than she liked. “Leliana, I’m afraid my captain is right. You saved my life, but with the way things are, the bodies, and your skills… I’m sorry, but I can’t keep this unofficial.” She shook her head. “At the very least one of our mages can see to your injuries while this gets sorted out – if you’re willing?”

For a long moment, Leliana paused, twisting her fingers in front of her in a manner that seemed wholly discordant with the woman whose hand seemed so steady on the bow. It was an almost courtly gesture, and she stopped when she noticed the direction of Rosslyn’s gaze.

“I think it is in both of our interests if I come with you,” she mused. “And not just because you saved my life. I could be of help to you. And besides,” she added, provoking Morrence with a grin, “a poor spy I would be if I passed up the opportunity to enter the camp of the Falcon of Highever, no?”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you if you wake up dead one morning,” Morrence grumbled as they set off back towards the encampment. Leliana walked ahead with Miriam, while Cuno lingered behind, busy checking the scent of every tree that lined the path.

“Oh don’t worry,” Rosslyn replied airily. “You aren’t the only one with suspicions – which is why you’ll be the one I trust to watch her.”

Morrence huffed. “Thanks.”

The first line of tents came into view through the thinning trees, and beyond, the distant mill of the crowd as people wandered away from the ring. The fight must have ended.

“I suppose it’s for the best that I take charge of our new guest,” Morrence offered airily, watching the disappointed lines that crept into Rosslyn’s frown. “I doubt your prince charming is going to be too happy when he hears you took on six brigands without armour and brought back an Orlesian spy into the bargain.”

“That’s an interesting way to speak of His Highness,” Rosslyn warned, turning a flat look on her captain.

Morrence sighed. “I meant no disrespect, just that you deserve some happiness after… everything. And it’s hard to miss the way he looks at you.”

For an instant, Rosslyn’s confident stride faltered, before she pushed her shoulders back and continued forward again. “It’s not that simple.” With nobles, it never was. How many times before had she been nothing more than a tidbit of court gossip, baited and sniggered at when she got angry at the wrong person or smiled when she should have demurred? Alistair might be without guile, and her heart might leap with every smile he shone her, but whatever it was stirring between them, instinct told her it needed nurturing, guarding, the way a gardener sheltered new seedlings from the bite of frost.

“It’s… I don’t know what it is.” Because there was also the other matter, the deeper secret she had long hidden even from herself, and smiled away whenever anyone mentioned the subject. The fear that it might cause him to shy away, that the warmth in his eyes might turn to pity if found out her deficiencies, plagued the darkest hours of her dreams, drove out any pleasure she might feel at imagining his touch upon her skin.

Morrence laid a gentle hand on her arm, her grip encouraging. “My lady, I may be your captain, but if you need a friend…”

“Thank you.” The lopsided smirk flashed. “But so you know, being nice to me won’t get you out of guard duty with our newest recruit.”

Morrence only chuckled. “It was worth a shot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I have decided to start putting the codex entries at the start - it does less to interrupt the flow of the story? I think? Anyway, this one is based on an Anglo-Saxon royal charter granting land to a church, which had appropriate flowery language. Since Andrastianism requires cremation of the dead, the sustainable production of oil and wood would be a pretty big deal, and since it bears a lot of resemblance to the  
> Early Medieval expansion of the Roman Catholic church, it's probably fair to assume that it *ahem* encourages the donation of land for this purpose.
> 
> And yes, I thought you all deserved Rosslyn being appreciative of a sweaty shirtless Alistair for putting you through the wringer in the last chapter ;D


	24. II: The Falcon, The Rose, And The Witch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Battle of Lothering comes to an unexpected end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confession time: I am a massive Star Trek nerd. If anyone else is and spots something that sounds kind of familiar, well, just know that it was too good an opportunity to pass up. Same goes for the Monty Python reference, except that's more ~~because there's nobody to stop me~~ just for fun ;D
> 
> CW: canon-typical violence, battle scene, animal butchery (briefly, the paragraph when they find the clearing)

_Twenty-sixth day of Bloomingtide, 9:32 Dragon_

They were losing the battle. In a brief respite, with the shattered remains of Gwaren’s outmatched cavalry around her, Rosslyn noted all the cracks in their defensive line with an expert eye. The centre square was folding, drawing inwards like a bow under tension, and on the left flank, the sheer weight of Cauthrien’s numbers beat back against Highever’s infantry. Their enemy’s banners fluttered over their ranks, feinting like real dragons at the scarlet War Dogs still snarling on the hill. Yet there were weaknesses there as well: Cauthrien’s tactics, while sound, were uninspired and stolid, and Rosslyn ground her teeth fighting back the urge to take advantage of openings where magefire or a well-placed cavalry charge might turn the tide of battle.

It was too dangerous. They had committed to this, and to change the plan now would risk not only the lives of everyone under her command but also their only chance of victory. Gwaren’s troops had to reach Lothering swollen with their win, unsuspecting; this fight was nothing more than bait to a trap, a way to break up the advantage of numbers and direct their own hubris back on them, so no matter how galling she found it to try and lose on purpose, Rosslyn kept her seat, her mind fixed on victory and not on the men dying in their hundreds to see it through.

Alistair was commanding the infantry, dressed in Cailan’s armour to draw Cauthrien’s eye. With Loghain’s expectations and her own hunger for glory weighing on her, it hardly mattered whether or not she saw through the ruse, but it made him a target, a prize just waiting for any skilled archer or infantryman with a lucky sword. Forcing down the churn in her stomach, Rosslyn dragged her gaze away from where he stood behind a bristling wall of royal guard and swept it along the lines to where the templars stood defending the mages. She had put them in an exposed position, trusting to Irminric’s sense to keep them safe, but as she watched, Cauthrien pulled back reserves from the buckling Highever flank and sent them to surround the low rise where he and the other templars waited with ready blades.

Rosslyn raised her shield hand to signal the cavalry behind her, noting the lather on the horses’ necks as the last of the runners scurried away with emptied waterskins. Under the blaze of the summer sun, the brief respite had been necessary, but did little to assuage the thirst clinging to the back of her throat, or the last spiteful squeeze of her courses roiling low in her gut. Sweat trickled down the hollow of her back, and with nowhere to go, it soaked into the fabric layers beneath her armour, with the blood of the men she had killed, and stayed there, congealing and itchy. With a roll of her shoulders, she dismissed the feeling and reached up for the visor of the Falcon helm. The snap as it closed shut in darkness and the heat of her breath – a familiar claustrophobia, but better than getting an arrow in the eye.

Lifting her sword over her head, she nudged Lasan’s flanks with her heels and led off the line at a brisk canter, sweeping down behind the pickets to a cheer from the back rows of the infantry. She didn’t turn to see if Alistair raised a salute with the others who cheered them on but instead raised the pace, directing Morrence to take her flank and swing out wide. Together both spears of the cavalry spilled over the rise behind the mages, a wave of noise and muscle that pushed back the wall of Gwaren soldiers trying to surround them. Immolations and freezing spells lashed overhead – horses whinnied as the first saddles emptied, but their momentum carried them forward, biting deep into the ranks of the enemy until one field commander had the presence of mind to call for pikes. An arrow took him in the shoulder before he could finish the order, but it was already being followed.

“Knight-Captain – get them out!” Morrence bellowed as she reined her charger to a halt.

Gwaren pikemen pushed forward, closing ranks to break the charge. A second row behind them formed up with swords drawn to defend them against the mabari snaking through gaps in the defence, but the dogs were savage, protected at neck and chest by thick plates of boiled leather, and more than one black-clad soldier fell under their tearing jaws.

Deaf to the screams that welled around her, Rosslyn used the distraction and grimly hacked at any who pressed too close. One man reached up and tried to drag her from her saddle. She butted him with the edge of her shield, sending him off balance under the strike of Lasan’s hooves. Out of the corner of her eye, she measured the mages’ retreat and allowed the melee to push her troopers back, just enough that they covered the escape to safer ground, but even as they withdrew, soldiers crowded in on every side, and almost too late Rosslyn spotted the way Gwaren’s line was bending, curving round to try and cut off the cavalry from any reinforcements.

Or to stop them going to the aid of anyone else. From her vantage point she saw the central line of the infantry finally give way, the spearpoint of Gwaren soldiers that set straight for Alistair’s position on the hill. Cauthrien, it seemed, was not so unoriginal after all.

She had no time to think about it. Her standard-bearer fell. The Laurels fluttered to the blood-churned earth and a ripple of despair sighed through the ranks of horse at her back.

“ _Not today!_ ” she roared in defiance, her sword a flash across the jugular of the man who took the banner. “Morrence! To me! Tell Irminric _we’re going through them_!”

She saw a gap, a break where the crush was not so deep. Lasan bugled a challenge as she kicked him forward and she answered, screaming a wordless battle cry that rattled in the hollow space behind her helmet. The dogs raked deep, baying, and the troopers followed. The hole they punched in the enemy line opened slowly, saddles emptying and horses stumbling, but the edge of the melee was in sight and determination drove them forward. For a moment it seemed the line was reforming, grouping to halt them again, until a shadow boiled over the ground before the horses, a living thing, seething and seeking out the soldiers directly ahead. The enemy ranks drew back, wailing, scrambling to get away from unseen monsters – a Terror hex, Rosslyn realised – and the troopers cut them down as they cowered.

She had to get to Alistair.

After what seemed like an age, they burst out onto clear ground, breaking into a canter as she propped right and made for the flank of Highever’s forces to regroup and swing back to defend the centre. A man flagged her down as she approached, and when she lifted her visor she recognised the face of the Amaranthine deserter, Riley, though the sergeant’s band on his arm and the Laurels on his surcoat were all but lost under a wash of blood.

“We canna hold them back, Y’ Ladyship,” he panted. “They’re gan’a break through. It’s now or neva.”

“Keep them occupied as long as you can,” she ordered. “My troopers will help. I’ll get His Highness out and then you fall back – our quitting the field will be your signal.”

“Aye, Ma’am.”

Cauthrien’s position was pressing now. With the mages in retreat and the king’s infantry drawing in to guard their flanks, Loghain’s young protégée had more soldiers to commit to the assault on their lines, and every step taken only increased her advantage. Though the plan from the start had been to lose, the defeat was starting to look a little too convincing for Rosslyn’s liking. They were running out of time.

Morrence halted beside her, her hand pressed over a wound at her side. “Nothing but a scratch,” she ground out when she noticed the direction of Rosslyn’s gaze.

“A _scratch_?”

“I’ve had worse – it’s just a flesh wound. Orders?”

“I leave the cavalry to you,” Rosslyn replied. “Harry the advance and break away when you can. I’ll take the prince and meet you at the rendezvous.”

“Best hurry, he’s got company.”

Rosslyn spared a glance as her captain wheeled and spurred away, for an instant lost for how she might get Alistair out of the battle – there was no time to find him a spare horse, and the infantry would be upon him too fast to get him out on foot.

“You’re not going to like this,” she muttered to Lasan as she sheathed her sword and whistled for Cuno. He broke away from the pack, easily keeping pace with the large stallion as she once more pushed him into a canter.

The first of Gwaren’s banners already hovered over the royal guard, the sound of fighting closing on all sides. Alistair, shining in the king’s aurum plate, gave a rallying cry to those around him and struck out with the pommel of his sword, a blow that sent his opponent staggering back into the path of Lieutenant Mhairi’s blade, but more soldiers rose to fill the man’s fall.

“ _Alistair!_ ”

He turned. Mhairi saw before he did what Rosslyn intended to do, and yelled for the guard around her to form up and block any advance that tried to reach them. Four strides out, Rosslyn leaned down from the saddle, her right arm out, hand poised to reach for his, hoping her momentum would be enough. Time slowed in the space between breaths. His weapons dropped, too cumbersome in his hands, too much weight when there was no room for miscalculation.

He caught her hand – his weight pulled at her shoulder as she swung him up behind her. Lasan bucked, squealing, but Alistair’s arms wound around her waist, anchoring him to the horse’s back.

“Hold on!” Rosslyn called over her shoulder as she turned to make for the safety of the trees. “ _Rach, Lasan! Rach gu lath!_ ”

A cry of frustration swelled from Gwaren’s ranks as Lasan jolted forward, desperation breaking them through Highever’s flank in one last frenzied attempt to capture prince and teyrna both. Rosslyn’s sword sprang into her hand once more, ready to cut down any who came within reach, while Cuno snarled at her side, using his bulk and the snap of his teeth to throw men out of the way.

And then they were out of the final knot of soldiers, the press of bodies falling away on all sides with a last kick of Lasan’s hooves as they galloped for the hill and the dense cover that would hide them from any archers left in Cauthrien’s ranks. Once they crested the hill with no sign of pursuit, Rosslyn eased off and the horse slowed to a halt, tossing his head. she fumbled with the chinstrap of her helmet, eager to have it off, to breathe fresh air again.

“Are you alright?” Alistair panted behind her. He still held tightly to her waist, but had lifted the visor of his own helmet to watch her as she looked back at the tattered detritus of the battle.

“This seemed like a much better plan a few hours ago,” she said.

He tucked away a matted lock of her hair that was catching in his mouth. “It’ll work. Astillo and Gideon know what they’re doing. And if they fail, this would be a good opportunity for your spy to prove herself.”

“ _My_ spy?” She sighed. “We’re putting a lot of faith in Cauthrien’s sense of honour.”

“We know she has one,” he answered. “And exchanging food and shelter in return for leaving civilians alone is a better deal than making her soldiers fight twice in one day, especially if she wants to prove to Ferelden that Loghain would make a better king than Cailan.”

“Gideon told you he was going to paint us all as tyrants, did he?” she chuckled, clucking at Lasan to walk on again. “He’ll sell it – the man should have been an actor. But still…” She sighed, passing a last look back over her shoulder. “It stings to think whatever happens now is out of our hands.”

“I know,” Alistair agreed.

It was cooler under the trees. Without any way to take it off, the layers of plate and mail still chafed, but the discomfort numbed as the battle-blood faded and fatigue stirred in its place. Over the jingle of harness and Cuno’s heavy panting, birdsong wove through the branches, twining with the distraction of soft, filtered sunlight and mossy banks starred with fragrant woodland flowers, so that the harsh memories of the battle started to warp into something distant, unreal.

“Thank you, by the way, for saving my life back there,” Alistair said into the silence, as if no time had passed. “They’ll write songs about it, just wait and see.”

Rosslyn shifted in the saddle, startled out of a doze. “I doubt it – but you’re welcome.”

“What do you mean? You pulled off a dashing, daring rescue and whisked the Prince of Ferelden away beyond the reach of certain doom! I imagine Ser Cauthrien wasn’t pleased, but I for one was very impressed.”

“I think you’re just trying to flatter me so I won’t make you walk,” she answered airily, smirking over her shoulder.

“Teyrna Rosslyn, I am shocked. It hurts my feelings that you think I would use base flattery on a valiant, generous, capable woman such as yourself just to save my poor feet from a few hours of tramping through the mud.” He leaned forward, still keeping his hands discreetly at her waist, and laid his chin on her shoulder like a puppy looking for treats. “Is it working?”

She stifled a giggle. “You’d be better off trying to charm the horse, since he’s the one carrying you.”

“That’s much less fun than charming _you_ , dear lady,” he purred, delighted by the slight shiver he noticed as his breath stirred the fine hairs on the back of her neck.

“What makes you think you’re charming me?”

“Well you haven’t kicked me off yet.”

“I suppose I’ll have to concede that,” she hummed as she allowed herself to lean back into his shoulder. “You can stay – for now.”

* * *

 

The pleasant mood didn’t last long. As the afternoon wore on it became clear they were lost, in a completely different part of the forest to the rendezvous they should have reached at least an hour before. They had seen nobody since the battle, not even stragglers looking for somewhere safe to rest.

“I don’t understand it,” Alistair grumbled as he washed the back of his neck in a stream running alongside the path. “We’re following the trail, and it’s not like the country around Lothering is that wild. Even if we were lost, we should have run into a farmstead or something by now. And I could certainly do without the midges,” he added, swatting his cheek.

“The shadows are in the wrong place – we’re heading southeast, not west.” Rosslyn’s eyes scanned the open woodland around them. At her side, Lasan snorted and swished his tail. “Perhaps we took a wrong turn somewhere.”

He looked up. “I have a feeling if we turn around we’ll only have the same problem.”

“I think you’re right.”

The trees above crowded over them, larger than most that made up the forests in the hinterlands around Lothering and Redcliffe, and somehow more twisted. The birdsong had stopped. Reaching a decision, Rosslyn unbuckled her sword from Lasan’s saddle and strapped it to her waist instead. She whistled for Cuno, who raised his head from the gnarled set of roots he had been studying and trotted over to her side.

“Something wants us to go this way,” she told Alistair, “So let’s go. We’ll get to the end of the trail, find whatever is doing this, kill it if necessary, and then be on our way. What?”

“Nothing,” he replied, grinning fondly. “I’m just trying to imagine what you must be like at court.”

“Bored out of my mind, usually,” she admitted, answering his expression with a smile of her own.

“Should we mount up?”

She shook her head. “Whatever this is, we’re not going to run from it, and we’ll have an easier time on the ground fighting off anything that wants a piece of us. Besides, I’d rather not tax Lasan more than I have to.”

With one last look along the way they had come, she lifted the reins over her horse’s head and set off, stretching out her stride to combat the cramp in her legs, and to steady her nerves. At her side, Alistair raked his eyes along the treeline, determined to be vigilant for anything that might leap out from the shadows despite lacking any weapon that would be useful in a fight.

He was the one who spotted the first totem as mist started to creep over the path behind them.

“Is it Chasind?” he wondered, watching Cuno prowl over to sniff the grisly thing. It was a hart skull, still with a few scraps of rotting flesh clinging to the bone, hung on the top of a frame lashed together in a rough human shape decorated with mouldy furs and loops of beads made from red stone. Feathers and bleached vertebrae were tied to the hart’s antlers on long strings of sinew that caught the wind and clinked together with a hollow sound like dry sticks.

“Don’t touch it,” Rosslyn advised. “We must be getting close.”

The mist closed in around them. Alistair drew in closer to Rosslyn’s side until he was near enough that their hands brushed with every stride, a paltry touch through two layers of gauntlets, but still a welcome reassurance as the path narrowed and ever more empty-eyed sentinels peered at them through the trees.

When at last the forest opened into a clearing, what they found was no less disconcerting. An old woman sat on a flat rock on the gravel shore of the stream that ran through the glade, humming a tune as she pulled the guts from the carcass of a rabbit, her hands bathed scarlet to the wrist. Around her, ravens perched and watched her movements with careful eyes, rustling their wings in anticipation of the moment she would fling the animal’s innards out for them to squabble over. She watched them for a moment, as if they were a mildly entertaining circus act, and then turned her eyes back to her fire and the task of peeling the rabbit from its skin.

Squaring his shoulders, Alistair stepped forward, but Rosslyn’s hand on his arm made him pause.

“Be careful,” she said. She was looking at Cuno, whose ears were pressed back flat against his head with every hair along his spine standing to attention.

“Whaaat?” he checked. “You mean you _don’t_ think this old lady is completely harmless and wouldn’t say ‘boo’ to a goose?”

She offered him a wry quirk of her mouth. “I grew up with stories like this. I think that’s Flemeth.”

“Flemeth? The Witch of the Wilds Flemeth who steals babies and turns unsuspecting travellers into frogs?”

“You can’t turn people into frogs.”

“Maybe _you_ can’t.”

Rosslyn rolled her eyes at the teasing. “Well we can’t turn back. She brought us here for a reason.”

“Or,” Alistair countered, “we just happened to get caught in some nefarious, witchy trap and we’ll go the same way as every other unfortunate who came before us.”

“Are you going to hover over there all day?” a gravelly voice called as Rosslyn opened her mouth to respond. “You must be tired after your travels.”

The ground beneath them shifted. Lasan skittered sideways – Cuno yelped at the air – Alistair read panic in Rosslyn’s eyes as she searched for an explanation. They stood in the middle of the meadow over twenty paces from the treeline that had sheltered them, exposed and wrong-footed without even a flash of light or a clap of thunder to mark the change. Sharing a guarded look, she eased the grip on her sword and eased out a steadying breath.

“Great,” Alistair muttered. “Frog time.” He laid a hand on Rosslyn’s arm, and at her nod, he led the way across to where the old woman still sat cleaning her rabbit, ignoring them.

“Good day to you, madam!” he called, with his most winning smile. “Could you help us? It appears we’ve lost our way.”

The old woman canted her head to regard him with unnerving yellow eyes. “Did you?” she asked, in a voice rich with amusement. “Perhaps it was the way that lost you!” She cackled. “Oh, but manners are refreshing. And what of you, girl – are your words as pretty as your companion?”

“We’re sorry for the intrusion, _An-dìoghaltas_ ,” Rosslyn answered warily. “But we would welcome your help.”

For a moment, the old woman only stared, searching for something in the cautious defiance of Rosslyn’s expression. “ _An-dìoghaltas_ ,” she murmured eventually. “Lady of Vengeance. That’s a name I have not heard in a long time. Do you know me, girl?”

“I… don’t know,” came the answer, halting. “Nan told me stories about Flemeth when I was a child. There was a tower room we were forbidden to enter.”

“But enter it you did, as children feel they must do, always looking for knowledge, until they find more than they bargained for.” The amusement solidified into something sharper. “And tell me, what did you find?”

Rosslyn blanched away, a muscle ticking in her jaw, and the old woman’s mouth curled up at one corner.

“So much about you is uncertain, and the wheels have only just started turning,” she said. “But… yes. There might be hope for you yet, if you have the stomach to let it in.” She cackled again, at some private joke.

Alistair stepped forward, almost so he was blocking Rosslyn from further teasing, though the action seemed unconscious. “ _Are_ you Flemeth, then?”

“As much as I am anyone,” came the silky reply. “Please, join me.”

* * *

 

They had little choice in the end but to stay in Flemeth’s clearing. She made a passable hostess, for a swamp witch, though as he sat by the fire watching her ladle stew into three bowls that had appeared just as unfathomably as everything other utensil she had used, Alistair could feel the lingering ache in his shoulders from all the wood he had been made to chop for her that afternoon.

On the other side of the fire, Lasan’s saddle pad and both his and Rosslyn’s gambesons hung on makeshift racks of hazel saplings, drying after she had tried to scrub the worst of the battle grime out into the stream. It had been distracting, watching her curse and grumble as she lathered soapwort into the cloth with no idea what she was doing; when she had come to him, dressed down to a sleeveless tunic and breeches, with the clean-ish laundry thrown over one arm and a full waterskin in the other, the axe had very nearly slipped out of his hands. The whole afternoon had seemed so ordinary, so removed from the glitter of court and the political barbs that now made up his days, that part of him wished he didn’t have to go back at all. He could be happy with a simple life. As he watched Rosslyn take her bowl of stew and tear off a hunk of flatbread for her dog, however, he knew it would never suit her. Winters were harsh; peasants spent their energy on surviving, not on bringing about change, and she could never accept such an existence when she was instead given the power to defend others who needed it.

“How long will we be staying here?” he asked.

Flemeth chewed a slow mouthful, head tilted to listen to the animals creeping through the forest around them. “That is a question my daughter would ask me incessantly – though without the same polite restraint you show, of course.” She shook her head. “Morrigan was always so eager for the wide world, and she chafed and chafed until she could stand the Wilds no more and left. She thinks she knows what’s what better than I, or anyone, but we shall see. My question to you is the same I posed to her. Why must you go?”

“We’re fighting a war,” Rosslyn answered with a frown. “Our friends are looking for us. If we don’t return people will die.”

“And people will die if you do.” Flemeth shrugged. “After all, you send them to their deaths, do you not? And what of the loyal Fereldans whose blood you were so diligently cleaning off your sword but an hour ago? Wars happened long before you were born, girl, and people will die long after your bones turn to dust, and most of them will never matter in the grand scheme of things.”

The younger woman bristled. “Yes, surely it’s better to sit in the woods mocking those who would seek justice for those who have been wronged.”

“Justice, you say?” Flemeth shot a piercing glare over the fire, that dark amusement once more dancing in her eyes. “And when does justice become vengeance?”

“We didn’t start this conflict,” Alistair interrupted quickly. “Loghain did. We’re only trying to stop him.”

“Ah yes, now we come to it…” With a tired sigh and a creak of old joints, Flemeth set her half-eaten bowl of stew aside and picked up a stick to stoke the fire. “Are you so sure you fight for such a noble cause?” She chuckled, a sound like the dry bones of the totem they had come across earlier. “Loghain no doubt thinks _his_ cause is noble, too, and you the hindrance. So angry, _so_ spurred by injustice, that lad, but it’s not his rage you’re battling now. Your enemy is fear.”

“His fear of Orlais,” Rosslyn guessed.

Flemeth glanced to her, with eyes as alien as a cat’s. “Men’s hearts hold shadows darker than any tainted creature, child, and some grow slowly, and by then they have infected others and spread, until even a whole country might succumb. And it cannot be defeated merely by shaking swords at it.”

The poked fire threw up a shower of sparks as one of the logs cracked and collapsed into the embers. The night around them closed in, distant starlight, the bark of a fox, cold tendrils of air that oozed against exposed inches of flesh not tightly hidden within a blanket.

“How do we stop him?” Alistair asked when the silence stretched.

Flemeth hummed and took up her stew again. “Fear is a very healthy thing most of the time – it warns us of danger, reminds us of our limits, protects us from carelessness – and yet, when holds you hostage, it can be hard to make it let go.” The words, spoken so carefully, held a weight that pinned the two warriors to their seats. “The question to ask yourselves is, when does a _person_ let go of _fear_?”

Alistair gulped and glanced to Rosslyn, but she was frowning down at the heart of the fire. Neither of them had an answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you know, it's impossible to have a war in Ferelden without Flemeth sticking her nose in to 'help' in the most melodramatic way possible. Which is good for me, because she's great fun to write. 
> 
> Tell me what you think! Does Flemeth have a secret angle we don't know about? What happened with the battle? Are Alistair and Rosslyn finally getting somewhere with their relationship?


	25. II: Terrible Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosslyn and Alistair return to the fight, only to find more bad news awaiting them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! It's certainly been quite a while (relatively) since the last chapter update, but I'm afraid life decided to cook up a perfect storm and send me into creative hibernation. In between all the spontaneous naps and general obligations, I've been planning ahead, but now I'm mostly at the point I wanted to reach and now I'm back to catch up with actually writing this behemoth again.

_Twenty-seventh day of Bloomingtide, 9:32 Dragon_

Alistair opened his eyes to the ruby-bright embers of the fire, its warmth a dry rasp across his skin. At his back, a thick morning mist seeped under the blanket Flemeth had given him, soaking through his gambeson so his shirt stuck to his skin as he moved. Blinking the itch out of his eyes, he sat up to poke the fire back into wakefulness, and realised through a yawn that the witch had left them some time in the night; he and Rosslyn were alone. She lay curled up on the other side of the fire with her blanket tucked up to her chin and her head pillowed on one arm, with Cuno’s protective bulk curved against her back to keep out the draughts. The dog’s broad head rested on his mistress’ hip, his nose twitching as he dreamed. Alistair chuckled to himself at the familiarity the two shared in their repose, and, deciding to let them sleep for a while longer, pushed himself off his side intending to take stock of their supplies. He heard a snort behind him as he massaged feeling back into his legs, but Lasan quickly dismissed him with a nonchalant flick of his tail and went back to cropping the grass a short distance away.

Flemeth had left them food. Hidden amongst their other things, Alistair found a brace of fat brown trout and a skin of wild strawberries, as well as a lump of rough dough that smelled wonderfully nutty when he laid it on the flat rock set into the embers, which had been used to bake the bread the night before. He spitted the fish and set them in the brackets over the growing flames, and soon the damp moss-and-wild garlic scent of the forest was overtaken by the rich, greasy smell of roasting fish. To distract himself from the growl of his stomach, he tried to follow the sounds of crows in the nearby trees, but the mist was thick enough that sounds distorted and the edge of the clearing showed itself only as a wall of dim, twisting shadow. He doubted the sun was even up yet.

“I didn’t know you were such a cook.” Rosslyn had sat up, and was rubbing a hand down the side of her face to wipe the sleep away. Stray locks of black hair stuck out at odd angles from where she had tied it back out of the way, curling over her shoulders in the morning humidity.

Alistair cleared his throat and turned his gaze to the fire. “But ov course, _mademoiselle_ ,” he replied, adopting a strong Orlesian accent, “zose Anderfel dogs oo raized me inseested on ze best of educations _pour moi_.”

The husky chuckle he received in reply made his face heat, but Rosslyn was already standing to stretch, wrapping the blanket tightly around her shoulders like a cloak. “No Flemeth?”

“No,” he answered. “Though I wouldn’t put it past her to have those crows spying on us for her.”

“And the trees as well – don’t you dare, Cuno,” she added to the dog, who had inched towards the fire and the tasty-smelling fish.

He looked over his shoulder at his mistress with an innocent wiggle of his stubby tail.

“I said no. I’ll not have you choking on fish bones. And don’t turn those ridiculous eyes on Alistair, either,” she warned, drawing her mouth into a stern line. “It won’t work.”

Alistair pointed. “There should be some leftover stew in one of those skins next to the saddle, if you want to give him that.”

“Thanks.”

Breakfast went quickly after that. As they ate, the sun rose over the trees and turned the mist golden, though as yet it lacked the heat to burn it away completely. Neither Rosslyn nor Alistair knew how far they would have to travel to find their forward camp, so they agreed to set off as soon as possible, assuming that Flemeth had decided to leave them to their own devices and didn’t expect a formal goodbye. They would have to wear their armour, damp though it was, since they lacked any means of carrying it.

“And we’ll have to walk, at least until Lasan has warmed up,” Rosslyn added as she tossed the remains of her fish on the fire.

“I don’t care, as long as we get away from here. You see to him, and I’ll tidy up this stuff.”

She nodded and stood, taking one of the blankets as a makeshift rope to go and catch her horse. Not wanting to think about how relaxed their meal had been, or about all the strictures of protocol that waited for him beyond the forest, Alistair sighed and watched her go, trying to decide whether he should first put out the fire, or gather all of the items Flemeth had let them borrow.

“Have you worked it out yet?” asked an amused voice in his ear.

Alistair yelped and leapt sideways, stumbling over the loose pebbles on the riverbank. Flemeth stood watching him, her yellow eyes dancing to match the smirk playing at the corners of her mouth, and it was hard to say if it was magic or just a trick of the light, but her simple peasant’s garb seemed to shimmer as if her entire form were an illusion.

“Where did you come from?” he demanded. “And what – what did you mean by that?”

The witch tilted her head, as if the answer were obvious. “You look at her with such concentration,” she purred. “There must be a reason.”

“Is there something else more interesting in this fog I should be looking at?”

Flemeth’s slyness evaporated as she threw her head back and cackled. “Such a clever tongue! It’s no wonder she likes you.”

“I don’t –” Alistair caught the innuendo, and the words died in the flush that crept up his neck.

“Listen to me, young man,” she warned, stepping closer, all trace of mirth gone. “The path laid before that girl is one cast deep in shadow, as it was always meant to be. Say it’s destiny, or the calling in her blood, but there may come a time when she will to look into that darkness and _leap_.” She searched his face, and there was power in the pinning quality of her gaze.

“Why are you so interested in her?”

“Such concern – good. She is the fulcrum, and what is happening now is just the windrise before the true storm breaks. Cling to the light while you can. Cling to _her_ , and hope it will be enough.”

He stared. His mouth worked, wondering which bit of the speech to question first, trying to understand the sudden protective roar in his chest – were the words a curse or a threat? He wanted to demand an end to the riddles, to close the space and wring every last scrap of information from those piercing, catlike eyes.

Rosslyn’s voice broke the spell. He whipped around, searching for the source, and found her rolling the last layer of quilted mail armour over Lasan’s haunches.

“What were you looking at?” she asked. “Didn’t you hear me calling?”

“But – didn’t you see…?” He turned again, but Flemeth was gone, and might never have been there in the first place. Sighing, he ran a hand through his hair. “Never mind. I just thought I saw something.”

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I’m fine,” he lied, unable to meet the concern that lingered in her expression. “This place is just creepy.”

She accepted the excuse with a shrug and bent to pull her cuirass out of the pile of armour next to her, leaving Alistair with a hot itch on the back of his neck and an uncomfortable squirm in his gut. It was likely Flemeth was long gone, her warning delivered by nothing more than a glamour, but the words held enough weight to keep a confession from leaving his tongue, and they buzzed in his head like the midges just starting to stir from the grass. His hands lingered on the buckles as he helped with the plates Rosslyn couldn’t reach, his gaze distracted by the twist of shadows through the mist in the clearing. He had seen the consequences of her nature, even on the night of their very first meeting when she had all but collapsed into his arms, but that had been before he cared, before he had been forced to bury his worry for her recklessness under the vision of a woman guarded by pride and strength and a fierce determination to succeed; to hear his own fears parroted back at him, delivered with an air of prophecy, was sickening.

He stayed silent as Rosslyn turned to tighten the straps on his own armour, and only nodded when she finally whistled to Cuno and declared herself ready to return to civilisation.

* * *

 

They reached the rendezvous camp by mid-morning. Search parties had spotted them on the road an hour earlier, and word of their arrival had travelled ahead of them, so that when they finally limped out of the treeline, grooms and squires were already waiting to relieve them, with Mhairi – Captain, now – standing watch to ensure her charge really was alive and well. After a quick change and a call for fresh horses, they set out on the hard hour’s ride towards Lothering, while a hastily scrawled report, sealed with both the Laurels and the Rose Alistair had adopted as his personal sigil, set off in the opposite direction, straight towards Redcliffe and the king. Cailan, no doubt, would have a thing or two to say about their meeting with figure out of legend.

In the meantime, there was still the aftermath of a battle to manage. Soldiers and a slow trickle of villagers lined up to see them as they trotted with their escort over the bridge towards Lothering’s chantry, where the senior officers had set up their temporary headquarters.

“I’ll bet the revered mother just loved giving up her place to the army,” Alistair muttered in Rosslyn’s ear as they dismounted, nodding towards the War Dog banners that fluttered in the usual place of the golden Sunburst.

“There you are!”

Ser Gideon and Captain Astillo marched towards them from the direction of the cloister, neither apparently worse for wear after their victory over Cauthrien’s troops, though Gideon was still garbed in the rich trappings he had borrowed from Lothering’s mayor.

“Your Highness, Your Ladyship,” he greeted as he approached.

“Did everything go to plan?” Alistair asked.

“Like a millwheel,” came the answer. “Cauthrien was all-too eager to take our supplies in return for not having a second fight on her hands, and none of the buggers realised we’d drugged everything until they were so deep in their cups it wouldn’t have mattered either way. Most surrendered quick enough once the captain’s men showed up, and the rest are still sleeping off their headaches.”

Rosslyn nodded. “We’ll have to arrange their parole, let them go back to their fields for the harvest. What about Cauthrien?”

“This way, Your Ladyship,” Astillo said, gesturing towards the chantry.

Alistair brushed her elbow. “I’ll go and check what’s being done to move the army to Redcliffe. See you later?”

She leaned into the touch, the expression in her eyes still too concerned for his liking. “I wouldn’t miss it. We can compare notes.”

Following Alistair’s retreat across the square, she handed the reins of her horse to one of the accompanying scouts and followed the infantry captain up the steps and into the cool, shaded air of the chantry. The atmosphere inside was one of deliberate calm, laced with the bitter, soothing scents of healing herbs and the soft glow of spells as healers moved among the triage beds, tending equally to soldiers in royal red, Highever blue, and Gwaren black. From the shadowed recesses in the walls, the local templars watched the mages with more caution, hands resting on the hilts of their weapons in a manner that showed they were unused to the presence of so much magic in their midst, though they did nothing to disturb their charges’ work. At the far end of the hall, past the cluster of pushed-back pews and alcoves given to equipment stores, a knot of people stood at odds with each other, with Lothering’s revered mother toe-to-toe with Morrence, arguing in low voices. Rosslyn was surprised when she spotted a familiar shock of red hair standing next to the captain of her guard, her hand stretched out in a placating gesture.

“It is only a temporary measure,” Leliana assured, fine fingers laid on Morrence’s arm.

“I do not doubt the truth of that, child,” the revered mother replied in a reedy voice. “Nevertheless, it is highly irregular. The chantry is not a dungeon, it is a place of peace.”

“Mother Inga, I’m afraid I had no choice but to authorise this. There was nowhere else in Lothering secure enough to hold her.”

The revered mother sighed. “The army always finds justifications for the measures it takes, but my concern is the people I minister. Surely you understand that I cannot condone this? It was bad enough to endanger Lothering by using it as bait to a trap, but keeping that woman here –”

“If I could interrupt,” Astillo cut in. “We would like to see the prisoner.”

“Your Ladyship!” Morrence cried, reaching out to clasp Rosslyn warmly on the arm.

“Reports of my disappearance were greatly exaggerated,” Rosslyn said, to forestall questions. “It’s a long story, but there are more pressing matters that need to be addressed.”

Her captain nodded in understanding and stood back to introduce Ser Bryant, the commander of Lothering’s templars, and the revered mother, who did well to hide her snide appraisal beneath a polite curtsey. Mother Berit, apparently, had been gossiping.

“I gather you were talking about Gwaren’s general just now?” Rosslyn asked once introductions were complete.

“I’ve men in the vault with her, keeping an eye,” the templar said.

“Thank you, ser. If you would lead the way.”

With the revered mother’s scowl following after them, Ser Bryant led the way to a door at the back of the chantry which led down a narrow, curving stairway to a vault hewn directly into the bedrock, which had smaller alcoves leading off the main chamber. At one point they might have housed idols or Alamarri relics, remains too pagan for Chantry sensibilities, but now only one was occupied: Ser Cauthrien, locked behind iron bars with a pair of fully-armed templars standing stoic guard on either side of the cell. She looked up when the vault door groaned open.

“So Cailan’s bitch has finally decided to grace me with her presence,” she spat. “I wondered how long it would take.”

“Have you treated her well?” Rosslyn asked Ser Bryant, dismissing the barb.

“Enchanter Wynne healed her injuries, and we have given her food, though she did not eat it,” came the reply.

“I see. I’ll make the necessary arrangements with Ser Gideon to have her transferred to Redcliffe, and then –”

“Have you no remorse?” Cauthrien interrupted. She leaned against the bars of her cage, a feral sneer stretched across her features, deepening the shadows around her dark eyes. “You have torn Ferelden apart to oppose the very man who ensured you were born into freedom, and taken the side of a supposed king who would have sold us all out to the same conquerors that ground us into the dirt barely a generation ago!”

Rosslyn stilled. Her mouth pressed into a thin line and her eyes flared with something dangerous as she advanced towards the prisoner. “Do you think Loghain was the only one who fought against Orlais?” she asked. “My father led the retreat from the Battle of West Hill. Without my mother, Meghren would have been able to land reinforcements from Jader that would have tipped the balance at the Siege of Denerim, and Maric might never have been crowned king. Both of them are now dead – _murdered_ – and the man you serve is either responsible, or he doesn’t care enough to bring the swine who is to justice. That ought to tell you something about what Loghain has become.”

Cauthrien bared her teeth, but offered no retort.

“I killed men yesterday, every last one of them Fereldans, but so did you,” Rosslyn growled, and around her the torches on the wall seemed to gutter and shrink away. She remembered the glow of Flemeth’s eyes in the dark. “Loghain sent you from Denerim to beat anyone who dared question his ravings at the Landsmeet into submission. I saw what was left of the refugees from South Reach, and I heard what you did there, on Loghain’s orders, because he found a letter without context and let it feed his paranoia. Can you really say those are the actions of the same man we grew up calling a hero? What do you think he’ll do when he hears what happened here?” she demanded. “Will he come for you?”

“I…” Cauthrien rocked backwards, shook her head, squeezed her eyes shut as if to block out her own confession. “I am loyal to him, he knows it, though… I have had doubts of late. I’ve questioned – what I’ve seen, I –” Her breath stalled. “His Lordship is a great man, but it is true his hatred of Orlais has… clouded his judgement. He… he has done terrible things.”

“What things?” Rosslyn pressed.

“I don’t know it all,” Cauthrien replied. “But all I have I owe to him. I cannot betray him – don’t ask me to. If it means my death, then so be it.” She turned away, retreating to the furthest corner of her cell, where the torchlight could not reach her.

“I don’t want to kill you,” Rosslyn told her. “But I can’t let you go.”

“I understand. For what it’s worth,” she added as the Teyrna of Highever stepped away, “I hope you can end this.”

Rosslyn paused. “I will do my best to try.”

She didn’t stop walking until she reached the cloister and the sunshine baking down on the blushing roses that grew there among the beds of healing herbs. She breathed deep and tilted her face towards the heat, trying to lose herself in the fragrance and the birdsong and forget the chill of being underground, in the very cell that Cauthrien might have used for her, if the battle had been lost instead of won. At her side, Morrence waited silently for orders, a reminder that even a single moment of peace had to be stolen.

“Arrange an escort,” she said. “Outriders and a cart, and a mage to keep Cauthrien under a Sleep for the journey to Redcliffe.”

“Yes, Your Ladyship.”

“And before you go,” she added with a somewhat forced smile, “I see Leliana is proving herself useful after all.”

Morrence shifted her weight on her feet and folded her hands behind her back. “Yes, Your Ladyship. She’s been, uh, very helpful.”

“No trouble?”

“None, Your Ladyship.” The captain didn’t quite meet her eye, and cleared her throat at the sound of approaching footsteps. “I should go.”

“Rosslyn?”

She turned at the sound of Alistair’s voice, making note of her captain’s retreat as he strode along the path towards her. The sight of him, even with a day’s growth of scruff darkening his chin, soothed the ache in her shoulders, but nevertheless she held herself back, too aware of all the eyes on them to give into the desire to fold herself against him.

“I’m ready to go when you are,” she said instead, smiling. “If we hurry we might even get to the castle in time to sleep in proper beds tonight.” The smile faded. “What is it?”

Alistair sighed, reaching for the hand she held out to him. “There’s a contingent of chevaliers at Redcliffe. Cailan invited them.”

“That can’t be right.” Loghain had done terrible things through fear of Orlais; they had spent months convincing he nobility there was no basis to the accusations levelled at the Landsmeet; thousands had died to protect the assertion that the king wasn’t a traitor. Surely Cailan couldn’t be so naïve to think such a move would give him an advantage? But there was no lie in Alistair’s expression, and an unexpected stab of longing pierced her chest for the simple quiet of Flemeth’s glade.

* * *

 

Cailan scanned the letter by the light of the glowstone on his desk. He was already dressed for bed, and in a good mood. Eamon had been gracious as he welcomed the mercenary company to Redcliffe, and though it might have been Isolde who persuaded him to such courtesy, it set an example for the rest of the soldiers to follow. Tensions were to be expected, but the chevaliers had presented themselves well, and had voiced their commitment to helping protect Fereldan citizens against further bloodshed, and with the hitting force of their heavy cavalry, whatever companies Loghain had left after the Battle of Lothering would soon crumble.

“Ho, what do you think to this?” he said to the elven servant who was setting a tray of food on a nearby table. “My brother and Teyrna Rosslyn have met with Flemeth! I spend a whole day worrying about them disappearing from the battlefield, and they’re off gallivanting with the Witch of the Wilds!”

“An exciting tale, Your Majesty. Will there be anything else?”

He glanced up from the letter, and his brows contracted as he took in the elf’s stiff shoulders and tightly clenched hand – the other gripping something behind her back.

“I haven’t seen you before,” he realised. “You’re not a servant here –”

He moved, but the elf was faster. Before he had time to stand, she was behind him, and the silver line of a dagger pressed sharply into his neck.

“Scream and I’ll slice you,” she snarled. “You’re clever for a shem, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll listen to what I have to tell you.”

Cailan grunted and held his arms out wide in a gesture of surrender. “My lady, you have my complete attention.”

“Good. You’ll want to hear what I have to say.”

He heard her gulp back her hesitation, even as the dagger bit more sharply against his skin, but in the next moment she had let him go completely and ducked to the side, her weapon held up steady between them. Her eyes flicked to the door.

“I won’t call them,” Cailan promised, still with his palms up. “Not unless you draw blood. What’s your name?”

The elf straightened, but kept her weight on the balls of her feet, ready to move.

“My name is Tabris.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: the tactics used by the royalist army in this chapter, where the enemy is tricked into celebrating with drugged food and drink, is an idea I took from an actual ancient battle where the commanders did exactly that. I can't remember the name of the battle, however, so if there are any classicists out there with a better memory than me, please tell me!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for taking time to read my story. If you'd like to leave a comment - speculations, opinions, random collections of words - it would really make my day! <3


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